


___ With Sherlock

by cndrow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Car Sex, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Realistic PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Toys, This is based on the BBC series, UPDATED: new artwork on select chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 04:50:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 62,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10869471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cndrow/pseuds/cndrow
Summary: Originally published near-daily through June-August of 2012.This is by far the most popular story I've written, previously only posted to tumblr, then DeviantArt. I'm finally placing it here on AO3 to preserve it for posterity's sake.I drew several illustrations for this story, and as part of it's five year anniversary of writing this monster, I will be redrawing several key scenes, as my artistic skills have dramatically increased since then- but I'm keeping the original cover, I still love it. The tumblr link is no longer valid, however.I hope you enjoy the story, and the art that's on it's way soon!





	1. Sleeping With Sherlock (Chap 1)

John Watson was not a morning person; and the migraine pressing on the back of his eyes promised to make this one rougher than usual. Fortunately he'd remembered to pull the drapes last night before collapsing into bed, so the sun couldn't greet him with piercing needlepoints of light.  
  
He laid there for a moment, keeping his breathing slow and relaxed as his head throbbed with the barest of movements. He'd have to down an Imitrex or two; sooner rather than later, if eating breakfast and hydrating didn't work. The medication made him feel strange, in a way he didn't care for at all, but it was the only thing that relieved his powerful headaches.  
  
With that tentative schedule planned, he next concentrated on getting himself from the bed to the sitting room- a considerable feat, as the stairs were a part of that path. He allowed himself a soft grunt of pain as he cracked his eyelids open, his hands unfisting from the sheets.  
  
A soft sigh sounded by his ear, and his resulting gasp and jerked reaction flooded his vision with a painful haze. Clutching his head tenderly, he blinked in surprise at a mass of black that was half-hidden under the blankets.  
  
Hair, he slowly realized. _Sherlock's_ hair.  
  
It took a heroic effort, but he managed to lean over enough to tug on the sheets, revealing the pale angular face, composed and relaxed in sleep.  
  
John stared, migraine momentarily forgotten. He watched with a mix of fascination and irritation as the eyes fluttered and Sherlock stretched lazily, much like a cat, before focusing on John. The dark brows knitted, mirroring John's confusion.  
  
"Oh. Good morning, John."  
  
John winced, holding a hand out pleadingly. "Quietly, please," he begged in a whisper. "But what- _what_ are you doing in _my bed?_ "  
  
Sherlock slowly pushed himself to a sitting position, glancing about the room in mild wonder. That further annoyed John, but he didn't have the energy to prompt him.  
  
"I must've accidently fallen asleep this time," Sherlock murmured. "My apologies. Won't happen again. Why are we whispering?"  
  
"Migraine," John snapped, then huffed miserably as he rubbed tiredly at his temples. "Just. What. I mean. 'This time'?"  
  
Sherlock tilted his head, eyes darting rapidly over John's frame before he replied. "Do you want your medication? The bluish bottle in the pantry?"  
  
"I want…" John closed his eyes, waiting for a wave of nausea to pass. "…You to answer my question."  
  
There was a brief hesitation, which flooded John with another round of curiosity. "You had one of your nightmares again," Sherlock said slowly. "I calmed you, but I was overly tired and must've fallen asleep myself. As I said, my apologies."  
  
"Nightmare?" John's brow furrowed. "I don't… don't remember-,"  
  
"Shh. You shouldn't talk, not with a migraine." Sherlock rolled out of bed gracefully, his feet making no noise as he walked carefully to the door. "Do you want breakfast, or your medication?"  
  
John gave another shallow huff, slowly swinging his legs to the floor and testing his weight. "Breakfast," he muttered. "But this isn't over."  
  
"With you, it never is," Sherlock replied dryly. "I'll put the tea on. Take your time."  
  
John watched, dumbfounded, as Sherlock gave him a perfectly innocent smile and disappeared through the doorway. Too many questions fought to be answered first, and he rubbed his thumbs into his eyes before ponderously padding after his friend.  
  
One thing was certain- nothing with Sherlock was ever simple.


	2. Sleeping With Sherlock (Chap 2)

By the time John reached the sitting room- each stair step had to be taken one at a time, _god_ it was so _frustrating-_ the smell of toast and tea had filled the air, and his stomach couldn't decide if that was a good or bad thing.  
  
And Sherlock was just sitting there, normal as you please, staring intently into his microscope on the kitchen table, a piece of toast cooling beside him.  
  
Figuring the tea would offend his body the least, John carefully poured himself a cup and made his way to his favourite chair by the fireplace. It had molded over the last year to his backside, and he settled comfortably with a grateful sigh.  
  
But the silence wasn't their normal _I've just woken up, bugger off_ quiet; there was a thread of tension hanging in the air that was unusual unless one of them was in a fit. John had just mustered the courage to speak up- whisper, at least- when the toast was thrust into his vision. He recoiled quickly, then gritted his teeth against the pain.  
  
"You should eat."  
  
"I'm not eating _that,_ " John replied stubbornly.  
  
"You said you wanted breakfast." Sherlock's tone was even, detached; but it was also soft and low. A strange mix of uncaring and considerate.  
  
"Not breakfast that's been on your experimenting table," John muttered, pushing the pale arm away. "I told you, I refuse to eat anything that's touched your… stuff. Unsanitary, it is."  
  
Sherlock's voice rose perceptively. "It was on a plate, John." He rattled the dish pointedly, bread sliding around. "It's perfectly safe."  
  
"Nope. Not doing it."  
  
" _Fine,_ " Sherlock snarled, relinquishing the plate to allow it to fall in John's lap and stalked out of his vision. A gentle click and whirr located him back at his microscope, and John stared down at the toast in bafflement. Sherlock had never once cooked for him.  
  
And now he'd gone and refused it like an idiot, which of course would set the genius off in a tiff.  
  
He ran his hands shakily over his forehead and down the sides of his face. The longer he waited to apologize, the pricklier Sherlock would become. Considering his headache was going to do him in at this rate anyway, he might as well go fall on his sword while he was at it.  
  
Clutching the toast like it were made of glass, he pushed himself to his feet and padded over as quickly as he could manage. "Sherlock-,"  
  
"Don't bother."  
  
John inhaled sharply, realizing his mistake afterwards when his head exploded in a blossom of pain. He wavered on his feet, biting his lip when he felt, rather than saw, Sherlock's hand dart over and steady his hip. The touch was unnaturally warm. Sherlock's skin was supposed to be cool, wasn't it?  
  
"Sit. You're not well." Sherlock's eyes hadn't left the microscope.  
  
"No, I'm going to tell you I'm sorry," John whispered. "I am. You're right; I'm not well and I'm not thinking straight. Should've said thank you rather than snip at you."  
  
There was an awkward silence, made moreso by Sherlock's hand still resting just below his waist as he otherwise completely disregarded John.  
  
John brought up the toast and bit into it; it was overly done for his preference, but he wouldn't dare mention that now. He chewed once, twice; his mouth completely dry by the time he could swallow. As unpleasant as that was, the way his stomach lurched as the food reached it truly alarmed him.  
  
And Sherlock _still_ hadn't looked up.  
  
He took another bite, angrily this time. His throat tried to close as he swallowed. His stomach rumbled warningly. The kitchen light was suddenly flaring too bright, the dim hum of the machinery beating loudly in his ears.  
  
The next moment was a blur, blinded by pain and doubling over from the inevitable clench in his torso. He vaguely heard Sherlock remark he was ashen before he was sitting on the floor, head guided toward a strange point of darkness and he was retching and _his head_ and _oh god he wanted to die._  
  
Reality was slow to refocus, and when it did, his blurry vision was filled with an all-too-familiar curious face. Something cool and wet was gently pressed to his throat and held there.  
  
"Well, that was highly unsavoury."  
  
"Sod off," John shot back weakly. The ringing in his ears was nearly gone. "Worse on my end."  
  
"You're not a good patient, are you, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock continued, sounding entirely too amused.  
  
"No worse than you," John huffed. He closed his eyes, relieved to find the pressure in his head had lessened slightly after the purge. "What's that on my neck?"  
  
"Towel dipped in cold water. Helps the nausea."  
  
John's brow furrowed when he realized the truth of it. "So it does. How'd… How'd you know that?"  
  
"I've gone through withdrawal many times," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. He withdrew the cloth, snapping it into the air several times to cool it, then replaced it against John's neck.  
  
"Oh? Who taught you that trick, then?"  
  
"Myself," Sherlock snorted. "I tried everything; found some things that worked."  
  
John's eyes fluttered open, seeking the placid gaze and holding it. "Surely you didn't go through that alone."  
  
"Of course. I'm always alone."  Sherlock paused, a twitch of his face belying a momentary confusion. "Used to always be."  
  
"And look where that's landed you."  
  
"Oh, don't do the self-pitying ploy," Sherlock said disdainfully, pushing the trashbin aside and standing. "It's _extremely_ tiresome. Come; up you get."  
  
John gratefully took the proffered hand, an isolated part of his mind marveling once again at how warm and pliant Sherlock's skin was. "I feel like shit. I'm allowed."  
  
"Migraine's better after that, though?" Sherlock asked curiously as he led him back to his armchair. "Mine always are. Wonder what's caused yours.  Maybe…" He trailed off, looking thoughtful as he absently settled a blanket in John's lap.  
  
"What's this about nightmares?" John tilted his head as Sherlock purposefully turned and walked away. "Sherlock? Hello?"  
  
"We will discuss it when you're better. Wait there." With a dramatic swish, Sherlock exited the sitting room, leaving John to mutter and plot to the empty air. A moment later he returned and held out a hand with a long, oval pill. The other offered a glass of water. John sighed and accepted them both.  
  
"Now that you've rid your body of a goodly amount of the toxins, the medication should help," Sherlock said unnecessarily as he curled up in the chair opposite.  
  
"Yes, thank you," John said quietly. "Now will you explain-,"  
  
"Rest first. Talk later. I'm thinking."  
  
John scowled as he noted the dreamy quality Sherlock's eyes had; he was already mentally retreating, and John knew from previous experience no amount of questioning or noise would pull him from it until he was good and ready.  
  
He tugged the blanket closer defensively, resting his head back gingerly against the cushion. Less than a minute later he slipped into a dreamless sleep.


	3. Sleeping With Sherlock (Chap 3)

When John woke, the dimness of the flat and the overall stiffness of his body told him it had already reached afternoon. He clumsily reached for the lamp nearby, pleased when the burst of light caused minimal reflexive pain behind his eyes. Even if his vision swam a bit and he felt like he could _float_ out of the chair, they were much preferable sensations to the migraine.  
  
Next he tilted his head, listening to the faint traffic outside the twin windows. The flat was quiet, the only noises reaching his ears coming from beyond the walls. Somewhat odd; Sherlock rarely ventured out on his own anymore.  
  
With a sigh that melted into a groan, he unfurled his legs and shakily stood. "Sherlock?"  
  
Light footsteps resounded out the half-open door, and John frowned as Mrs. Hudson bustled in.  
  
"Oh dearie, Sherlock told me about your migraine," she said sweetly in her gentle way. "I popped in an hour ago, you were still napping."  
  
"What time is it?" John asked groggily.  
  
"Quarter past five," she replied genially. "Hungry, are you? Sherlock had this sent 'round for you, apparently. It just arrived."  
  
John eyed the paper bag curiously; if his nose was working well, it was his favourite soup from the cafe, hopefully complete with the tiny saltine crackers.  
  
"And where's he?" John asked as he accepted the bag.  
  
"Oh, yes. For you, love." She held out a folded note. "He tossed that at me as he stormed out a few hours ago, looking like the hounds of Hell were nipping at his trousers. Told me to hand it to you when you were up and about."  
  
John set the bag aside and thumbed open the paper.  
  
 _Lestrade called; don't wait up._  
  
The second line's handwriting was looser, with a slight slant as if Sherlock had written it in haste;  
  
 _You should eat._  
  
"I haven't seen him off in a tear like that in… Well, since last month, I suppose," Mrs. Hudson giggled. "You feeling better, dearie?"  
  
"Hm? Oh, yes, quite. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He gave her an exasperated smile. "What a turnabout this is; Sherlock telling _me_ to eat."  
  
Her grin turned sly as she petted his arm fondly. "Oh, he worries more than he lets on. Just doesn't know how to _say_ it, you know. Would you like a fresh pot of tea? I was about to put the kettle on."  
  
"Oh, please," John replied, fingering the note thoughtfully. "I'll be down in a moment."  
  
"Alright. Mind your instructions," she chuckled, smiling secretly again before slipping out the room.  
  
John passed the next few hours with their landlady, sharing the overly large portion of food Sherlock had ordered for him. She mentioned her heather and sage needed separating and repotting, and he insisted on helping. He knew next to nothing of gardening, but found Mrs. Hudson's bright company more alluring than the boredom of the empty rooms upstairs.  
  
Finally though, the sun's light had completely disappeared from the windows and he found himself slowly trudging up the steps to the sitting room. He tried several activities, but nothing engaged his mind- he stared at his blog, he stared at the telly, he stared at a book. The room was oppressively quiet without Sherlock puttering around.  
  
Sherlock, whose ego could flood a room without a single word spoken.  
  
He snorted at the thought, irritated that he missed his friend _this_ much. John was fairly certain Sherlock was staying away partly to avoid the conversation he insisted on having, and that just annoyed him further.  
  
Fingers tapped the pillow next to him as he recalled that morning. From the way Sherlock talked, it seemed he'd come into John's room more than once- _definitely_ more than once, while he was asleep. Due to nightmares, he'd said? John winced at the thought. He'd been susceptible to night terrors once he'd seen real battle; his mates had informed him he talked and yelled in his sleep at times, and he'd always awake in a cold sweat as he struggled to sit up, to reach out and avoid or delay the disaster he saw so vividly in his mind's eye.  
  
It was humiliating enough to realize Sherlock had witnessed that, but that he'd repeatedly come to him during the night was what really set him on edge. There _were_ boundaries, even if Sherlock refused to acknowledge them!  
  
John sighed, dropping his face in his hands. He hadn't woken with a night terror in a couple months now, daring to hope he'd left those horrible visions behind. ...Apparently not?  
  
Too tired to puzzle it any further, he took Sherlock's first bit of advice and went up to his room. A few moments with a medical textbook- that always put him to sleep- and he was lying back against his pillow with closed eyes.  
  
He was just drifting off when he caught a whiff of faint, familiar musk from his sheets, and he buried his nose in them instinctively.


	4. Sleeping With Sherlock (Chap 4)

_Lights flare and fire dances.  
A trickle of blood blinds his left eye. He can taste it. Bitter.  
Searing pain, bone cracks, binding his arm to his side.  
An agonized cry for help, and John's going to lose him. Too much blood, arm useless, hand cut to ribbons, can't hear himself scream, the soldier he'd pushed to safety is dying-  
Sherlock's dying-_  
  
John catapults out of bed before he's awake, wet eyes popping open, hands grasping as he tumbles to the floor. He lies there in a daze, sweating and gasping, his cheek smashed to the cool rug. The images keep flashing by, backwards and forwards like a demonic movie, unrelenting even with consciousness. It's quiet, yet he can still hear the shells exploding, the ringing and horns and can't tell if he's breathing-  
  
Whimpering, John dug his face into the worn fabric as the vestiges of the night terror slowly begin to fade. He'd just forced the last of the noises out of his head when the floor vibrated and the moonlight was blotted by someone, and Sherlock's muttering in his ear is the most blessed sound he'd ever heard. John clung to the dark jacket, pressing his nose into it like a child.  
  
With some coaxing, Sherlock managed to tug John back onto the bed, though the smaller man refused to allow any space between them and curled in his lap. They sat like that for a half hour, John's shaking receding only after Sherlock began smoothing a hand over his forehead.  
  
Once he'd collected his wits, John sighed heavily and pushed lightly on Sherlock's chest, but that only tightened his friend's arms around him.  
  
"M'alright now."  
  
"Good to hear." Sherlock remained a statue, locking John into his embrace.  
  
"You can- Y'know-,"  
  
" _This_ is why I've done what I've done," Sherlock interrupted sourly, and John tilted his head up quizzically. "Your nightmares aren't nightmares at'all- they're sleep terrors, or night terrors, which is a parasomnia disorder. The most common occurrence is in children; adults rarely experience them, and yours are obviously brought on by physical and emotional trauma. Yours occur most frequently when you're in stage 3 of NREM sleep, so it's several hours before I know if they will manifest that evening."  
  
"…And just what," John croaked, " _have_ you done?"  
  
Sherlock's eyes warmed as he replaced his palm against John's forehead. "From what I was able to research, touching and a low voice speaking familiar words calmed children the fastest. I didn't want you waking during the terror- as you'd most likely remember and relive it if you did- so I used touch and sound to pull you out of deep sleep and into a dreamless state before I left. Only two percent of the time have you returned to a night terror on the same night, so I am relatively certain you will rest after I do so."  
  
John leaned his head back shyly, away from the intimate feeling of Sherlock's hand on his skin. "And how long has this been going on?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged; John could tell he was being deliberately casual, and he frowned.  "Half a year?"  
  
" _Six months?_ " John exclaimed, scooting backwards off the firm thighs and scrambling toward the wall.  
  
Sherlock stared ahead, his profile lit by the city lights trickling through the window. "Six months and three weeks, to be more precise."  
  
"Why- _Why_ didn't you tell me?!" John rubbed the dampness from his face.  
  
"It worries you?" Sherlock's expression was unreadable. "That I was in your room with you unawares so often?"  
  
"How often?" John asked sullenly.  
  
"Once you have an episode, you regularly have one for eight to fourteen nights. You'll rarely skip a night in these cycles, usually occurring on the third or fourth evening. Once the cycle is through, you'll be free of them for up to twenty-one days before it restarts."  
  
John swallowed hard. "So. Often then."  
  
"Yes. And it bothers you."  
  
"Just that-," John paused, running a hand idly through his hair, spiking it in random directions. "I dunno. Anyone else, it'd be strange, _really_ strange."  
  
"You consider it a violation of privacy."  
  
"Sherlock, _look_ at me." John stared resolutely, letting the silence stretch into tension until Sherlock tilted his head. "You were- are taking care of me. And I… I'm rather surprised. I just wish I'd known. I'm sorry."  
  
Another pause. Once Sherlock had locked gazes with him, neither could look away.  
  
"I didn't tell you because I knew you'd be offended," Sherlock blurted suddenly, gesturing widely. "Or worse, _disgusted._ You're extremely sensitive about labeling your sexuality and misconstrue _every_ possible innuendo and use it as an opportunity to assert your healthy levels of testosterone. Even now you were physically repulsed by the idea that I've-,"  
  
"Sherlock, stop. Please."  
  
Sherlock glared, but snapped his mouth closed.  
  
"I see what you mean," John said carefully, "and- and yes, there's a bit of that. But I'm more worried about the fact that you felt you _couldn't_ tell me." He bit his lip painfully. "Have I been that off-putting?"  
  
" _Yes,_ " Sherlock said vehemently, then pursed his lips together.  
  
"Then I'm sorry for that, too," John replied quietly. "This is a… personal thing, you know? It is memories, bad ones, and they're…"  
  
"Evolving." Sherlock's tone livened, though his eyes were still narrowed. "You've superimposed myself into your terrors, and while I'm flattered at your obvious concern, it's aggravating to know I'm a source of your response, as indirect as it may be."  
  
John blinked, the dread and embarrassment winning him over again momentarily. "Just how much have I said?"  
  
"…Enough for me to worry."  
  
 _He worries more than he lets on._  
  
"Right then. I need you to promise me something."  
  
Sherlock's face shifted subtly, but John knew him too well to not see the apprehension. His friend was obviously waiting without comment, so he took a deep breath and continued.  
  
"If this happens again-,"  
  
"When."  
  
" _-When_ this happens again, I want- I want to know. I want you to be there when I wake up, and I want you to tell me what went on."  
  
Another facial twitch, this time a satisfied one. "I agree."  
  
"Good. Good." John wriggled under the bunched sheets, smoothing them out idly. He leaned forward when Sherlock stood, his fingers brushing the delicate wrist. "Where are you going?"  
  
One heartbeat. Two.  
  
"You said when it happens again-,"  
  
"Yes, well." John fell back into the bed, closing his eyes as his head sunk into the pillow. "I woke up from this one, and I'm still- I'd like you to stay, is all."  
  
There was a faint rustle circling the bed, then the mattress dipped as Sherlock settled on the other side.  
  
"How's your migraine?" Sherlock's voice was close, so much closer. Intimate. John suppressed a shiver.  
  
"Fine. Gone, actually. How's Lestrade?"  
  
"Boring."  
  
John began laughing, a soft round of chuckles that didn't stop for a full minute, even after he rolled on his side and saw the moonlight pooling in the pair of humourous eyes.  
  
"Go to sleep, John."  
  
"Think you can?"  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
John wondered at the conviction in Sherlock's voice, but was too tired to ponder it for long as he slipped gratefully back into sleep.


	5. Sleeping With Sherlock (Chap 5)

Without the element of shock (and the absence of a pounding headache), waking next to Sherlock wasn't nearly as odd as John worried it might be. Even in sleep, even splayed awkwardly on his stomach, Sherlock kept to his side of the bed, leaving a healthy distance between them. John was grateful for that, though the moment he recognized the space he wanted to reach over it. It seemed… peculiar, in a way he couldn't think to describe.  
  
Sherlock's face was mostly hidden by the pillow, a single flared nostril allowing him to breathe noisily. The black curls were frizzed and bent at every angle, giving the genius a decidedly rumpled look which John thoroughly approved of. And when the eye slitted and Sherlock rumbled, "Good morning, John," in a rare husky voice, well, it was so _normal_ John was overwhelmed by the sensation.  
  
"Yes. I mean. Morning." John shifted onto his back again, rolling his shoulder to ease the usual ache. "Sleep well?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
John noticed with a frown that the peek of dark between the sheets meant Sherlock had slept in his clothes. "Did I…?"  
  
"Not a peep from you."  
  
"Good." John stretched again, pointing his toes toward the edge of the bed. "I don't remember saying it last night, but thank you."  
  
"That's decidedly vague." Sherlock yawned, tongue curling like a cat's before he rolled and collapsed on his back, mirroring John. "What for?"  
  
"You are oblivious at times, you know?" John said lightly. He gestured vaguely between them. "Or are you fishing for compliments? I meant, for doing this, for… helping. 'Cause it has helped. I thought I'd stopped having them. At least I'm not waking up like last night all the time."  
  
"Mmm. Welcome. Do you always talk this much before quitting your bed in the mornings? I might have to rethink my promise."  
  
John chuckled at the obvious jab, flapping a hand dismissively at his friend. Their skin met, and John paused, his smile fading. "You're abnormally warm. I noticed it yesterday."  
  
"You were abnormally cool," Sherlock returned lazily. "And I heat up like a hot water bottle when I sleep. I can't rest unless I'm comfortably warm."  
  
"Really?" John tilted his head, arching a brow. His thumb lightly brushed the underside of Sherlock's wrist. "Is that why you're always wrapped in something or other?"  
  
"Yes. Really, must you be so verbal?"  
  
John laughed again, pushing to a sitting position and rubbing his face, inhaling a deep breath. The ache radiated from his shoulder again, and he pressed a hand to the scar through his sleep shirt. One of those mornings, then. This type he could handle, with an aspirin or two before-  
  
"John."  
  
"Yes?" John replied automatically.  
  
"I asked you a question."  
  
John twisted to make sure Sherlock saw his eye roll. "You're complaining I talk too much, then you want me to answer you. Are you always so impossible, even before breakfast?"  
  
Sherlock smiled indolently up at him, and John's chest hitched. Something about the disheveled hair, the languid pose and the relaxed expression lit by the early sunlight all came together to make a fantastic sight. The sculpted lips opened with a swift inhale, no doubt to question again, then pressed closed. John kneaded his thumb across his eyes again to hide his embarrassment.  
  
"Breakfast, then?" he suggested desperately.  
  
"Depends on my results," Sherlock replied cryptically as he slid from the bed gracefully and padded toward the door. "Might have to grab something on the way."  
  
"On the way where?" John perked at the thought of going out. One day stuck in the flat and he was itching to fly across London, even at the end of Sherlock's dubious tether. "Thought you said Lestrade was boring last night?"  
  
"Ugh. He _was,_ " Sherlock sneered, before flashing a bright smile over his shoulder. "But! The two corpses that were found were definitely not. I've had some tests stewing overnight, I need to check my phone for the results."  
  
"Oh. Right." John hid a yawn as Sherlock bolted down the stairs, bare feet slapping eagerly against the wood. He followed at a slower pace, and thus was just in time to see Sherlock fling his phone dramatically across the room, sailing through the air before landing on the sofa.  
  
"Bad news, then?"  
  
"The _worst!_ " Sherlock fumed. "Murder-suicide, as Lestrade suspected. Can't someone do something _interesting_ for a change? Spice it up a bit? The seedy underbelly of London should rear it's misshapen head and bite at the fat doddering fools that tread so uncaringly upon it."  
  
"That's remarkably poetic for you." John gave an indulgent smile before padding into the kitchen. "Tea?"  
  
There was a loud _whump,_ which located Sherlock throwing himself upon the sofa. It was quiet afterwards, and John shrugged and only filled the kettle halfway.  
  
"Sherlock? Where am I in this cycle of, ah, bad dreams?"  
  
No response. John took a tentative step toward the sofa. "Sherlock."  
  
"Night five." Sherlock's voice was muffled, but still distinctly annoyed. "Minimum another three nights. Now stop _chattering,_ for god's sake."  
  
"But _you_ were-," John started to protest, then snorted and turned back to the kitchen. Three more nights of waking up beside his lovable crabby friend.  
  
Who had been rather striking in the soft glow, with the raven hair curled against the white sheets. Even half-asleep, Sherlock knew how to position himself to look his damn best.  
  
John smiled to himself as he dug into the biscuit tin. The morning had started in a manner that should've made him extremely uncomfortable, and yet it was still all normal.


	6. Researching With Sherlock (Chap 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I found desperately missing in the BBC reboot was Sherlock's dependence on cocaine during the longer stretches between mental stimulation, and Waton's key role in helping him drop the habit. 
> 
> Thus, I threaded this tidbit into my fanfic.

_"TWO DAYS!"_  
  
"Not my fault, Sherlock," John reminded him placidly. He hitched his paper higher so he wouldn't have to see Sherlock furiously crawling over the furniture.  
  
"Are there no criminals left? Surely more are born every day, every hour!"  
  
"This is what hobbies are for." John coughed politely. "And not the kind where you put severed bits of corpses around your flat. Real hobbies."  
  
"Oh, like your _blog?_ " Sherlock sneered. "Rubbish."  
  
John peeked over the paper-shield, mildly offended. "Hey now. That blog gets you your clients at times. You shouldn't make light of it."  
  
He gasped as there was a rush of air, the paper ripped from his hands before Sherlock settled heavily on his lap. John swallowed nervously; this was a strange new habit of his friend's as of the last few days. Sherlock was usually content to invade his personal space, but avoid touching. Now, Sherlock perched on or around him as he pleased.  
  
"Entertain me," Sherlock demanded.  
  
John hid his potential embarrassment in a scoff. "Entertain yourself. I'm your flatmate, not your keeper."  
  
"I'll get the gun," Sherlock threatened. "I'll find it, and by god _I'll use it_ on any surface I come in contact with and rouse the entire street."  
  
John stared resolutely into the stormy eyes, unwavering in the battle of wills. A minute became two, then five, and Sherlock's weight was growing uncomfortable.  
  
"…I need to pass by the grocer sometime today," John finally offered, then grimaced when Sherlock flung his hands into the air.  
  
" _Grocer! No,_ John! Use your brain- what small percentage of it you command. Think, man, _think._ "  
  
"Of something for _you_ to do?" John's mouth dug into a deep frown. "I think it's high time you stopped to realise you- at least a part of you- is human. Physically human. This," he poked the flat stomach irritably, "needs to eat. And this," he swept a few of the errant curls from the forehead and tapped the warm skin, "needs to _rest._ And if you mention the words _boring_ or _bored_ at all the rest of the day, I'm going to cuff you a good one."  
  
" _Bo~ring,_ " Sherlock replied in a singsong tone, then yelped and flung himself backwards off John's lap to avoid the punch. "Well, at least you weren't boring for one point two seconds."  
  
John ran a hand over his face quickly to try to compose his growing frustration. "Sherlock, you need to learn how to be. Just _be._  Let your mind wander where it wants to and give it, and your body, a break."  
  
"Oh, spare me your New Age drivel, do." Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and resumed his pacing. "Even with your eclipsed mind, there are times you see something I observe but don't record. Can't you do this one thing for me? You're my last resort-,"  
  
Sherlock paused, foot in midair to climb the table. A thoughtful expression crossed his face that filled John with apprehension.  
  
"'Last resort' am I?" John stood as well, gritting his teeth. "So I'm at the bottom of some unnamed list? _'Toys to prod and poke when bored',_ is it?"  
  
Sherlock hadn't moved; his eyes retained the dreamlike quality, and John realized with a true flash of anger than he'd retreated from the conversation entirely.  
  
"Fine. Your 'last resort' is off to the grocer without you." He stomped to the door and pulled it open. Predictably, Sherlock didn't reply; hadn't even moved, actually, his foot still crooked at an odd angle. John channeled his anger into a glare Sherlock couldn't see and fled the apartment with gusto.  
  
With Sherlock in one of his fits, John decided to take the long way round to the store, passing through one of the small parks on his way and indulged himself in a rest under a shade tree. It was the weekend, and there were so many people-watching opportunities, especially at the grocer's. He took his time, meticulously piling items into his basket that was within their meager budget. At the last second, a tin of chocolate biscuits caught his eye and he grabbed them as well, hoping they'd make a decent peace offering.  
  
By the time he returned home and shook off the light mist that had begun to fall, the sun was already setting.  He lumbered clumsily up the stairs with his two bags of prized goods, nudging the door open with his foot.  
  
"If you're not in a better mood, don't bother," John called out as he flipped the lights on. "But I got us something extra nice, if you're feeling sociable."  
  
A dark blanket on the sofa shifted, and a peek of curious eyes peered over the arm. "Oh, _yesss_ ," Sherlock drawled. "Feeling quite sociable."  
  
"Good to hear." John shoved leftover odds and ends from the countertop and set the groceries down. "Not seen them before, was a stroke of luck I did this time."  
  
There was a strange sound, and John froze. It took him a few seconds to realize Sherlock was giggling. Frowning, he abandoned the kitchen and stepped over to his friend, tugging the blanket down to reveal the angular, grinning face.  
  
"You," Sherlock tittered. "There's a hole in the second bag, however did you manage to make it home? Luck, yes, luck indeed."  
  
"Are you alright?" John squatted by the sofa, watching with alarm as Sherlock's gaze wavered as it followed him. The eyes were overly bright, the marble skin spotted pink with- with what? "Sherlock, are you alright?"  
  
"Right as rain," Sherlock sighed happily, resting back against the cushion again. "Raining, is it? Your hair's damp. Messy when it's damp, don't catch a cold." He began laughing again, softly to himself, but it had a hard edge of madness.  
  
Instincts took over, and John peeled back an eyelid as he pressed his forefinger to the pulse in Sherlock's neck. Pupils dilated, skin flushed. Breaths shallow and quick, and a dancing pulse.  
  
_Drugs._  
  
"Sherlock, what did you do?!" John pivoted, reluctant to leave his friend but anxious to do something. "Did you take something?"  
  
"Of course. Cocaine."  
  
"My god." John was aghast with the frivolity of the answer. "On purpose?"  
  
"What a silly question," Sherlock grinned. "Think someone came in here and forced it on me? I would've _begged_ for it."  
  
John stood and walked away rapidly, biting his lips so severely he tasted a trickle of blood. "I assume you did this because you were bored," he tossed angrily over his shoulder.  
  
"No!" Sherlock sat up, swaying badly enough he had to grasp the wall to steady himself. He pointed accusingly at John, his eyes narrowed slits of enmity. "You _left._ "  
  
John gestured frantically around him, returning the glare. "You were having _conniptions,_ Sherlock! I could do nothing but sit and let you tear me to bits because you're such a _spoiled child._ I needed my space. A man needs his space at times, everyone does!"  
  
Sherlock looked genuinely confused, his furious expression melting into a softer one. "I never need space from you. You really…" He trailed off, obviously grasping for the words. "You need to be away from me?"  
  
"At times, yes!" John crossed the room again, unable to resist checking Sherlock's pulse again. Still thin and thready. "How could you do this to yourself?" he whispered brokenly. "You're damaging your mind, Sherlock. How could you willingly destroy what makes you _you?_ "  
  
A flash of clarity passed through Sherlock's gaze before he dropped it. "I don't care much for 'me'. Distractions are good. They help. This helps."  
  
John collapsed on the floor, grasping Sherlock's knees and tugging at his trousers. "Please, Sherlock. Please don't do this again. I'll do whatever it takes, just please, promise me."  
  
"Promises, promises," Sherlock sighed, swinging his head around in a slow circle. "Promises made, promises broken."  
  
"Sherlock, _please._ "  
  
"We'll see," Sherlock said with a bright smile.  
  
John stared for a moment, completely at a loss. Then he stood, told Sherlock to wait, and quickly put away the groceries that needed to be kept cool. The rest he left on the counter as he ran back to Sherlock's side, coaxing him to stand.  
  
"I'm taking you to bed," John said firmly.  
  
"Thought you'd never ask," Sherlock grinned back. "This isn't my first time, good doctor. I'm content to sit on my own."  
  
"Too bad. No, watch the blanket- don't trip. Come along."  
  
Despite his protests, Sherlock gave no resistance as John helped him up the extra flight of stairs to his own room. Sherlock was already dressed for bed, and John tucked him between the sheets before relinquishing his grip on the trembling wrist. He tugged his sweater off, leaving his lighter undershirt and pants on as he slipped into bed beside him. Sherlock was giggling again, a lone crazed sound in the darkened room.  
  
"You're to stay in here all night, understood?"  
  
"You're clear as a bell. _Ding_."  
  
John huffed, doubting he'd sleep much at all, and more than prepared to stay awake to keep Sherlock under surveillance. It took nearly two hours of humming and muttering to himself before Sherlock finally drifted into an uneasy rest, and John fell asleep with Sherlock's hand twined tightly in his own.


	7. Researching With Sherlock (Chap 2)

Sherlock slept restlessly, rolling about his side of the bed and even occasionally muttering nonsensical words. John dozed for only minutes at a time when Sherlock was more calm, studying his friend closely for most of the night.  
  
Sherlock had insinuated he was partly responsible for him being in this state; but that couldn't be true, could it? John had left the flat many times before when Sherlock was in a fit of pique; what made yesterday so special that he'd resort to this?  
  
 _Last resort._  
  
What an odd term to use. John still felt miffed about being labeled as such. Technically, he was Sherlock's flatmate. Realistically, he was much more- but a _toy_ he was not. He hadn't put up with the brusque manners and sometimes revolting habits just to be _entertainment._  
  
He reached over the slight space between them and brushed back damp curls from the closed eyes. There were ways Sherlock couldn't or wouldn't take care of himself, and John was more than happy to do it for him. He just has to figure out what had brought this on so Sherlock would never be tempted again.  
  
"John."  
  
The syllable was so soft John wondered if he'd imagined it at first. Sherlock's expression was still drawn and tight, the eyes closed and the mouth set in a firm line.  
  
"John."  
  
This time he saw the lips move. "Here."  
  
"Could you relinquish your bruising grip on my hand?" One eye slid open, a brow quirking as Sherlock relaxed. "I need to visit the loo."  
  
"Oh. Right." John obeyed immediately, but lunged forward a second later to grab it again as Sherlock sat up. "Wait-,"  
  
"I keep it in my room, not the _bathroom,_ " Sherlock yawned. "I don't lie to you, John."  
  
"Sometimes I wonder."  
  
Sherlock tossed a hurt glance over his shoulder as he shook off John's hand and stood. "Nice to know."  
  
"After yesterday-," John pushed himself out of bed and followed. "You've frightened me."  
  
"I still told you the truth about it," Sherlock snapped, gesturing widely as he ran down the stairs. "I don't see why that should make you suddenly choose to begin doubting me."  
  
John took the stairs as hastily as he could, but he reached the next floor just in time for Sherlock to slam the bathroom door in his face. Sherlock's voice drifted through it, muffled but clearly still irritated.  
  
"You don't need to hold my hand- or anything else- in _here._ "  
  
John sighed and chose to ignore the comment. He popped his head in the sitting room to check the time; just past four o'clock, but he wasn't tired. He felt nervous and edgy, and now concerned about nudging Sherlock into a better mood. If that was possible.  
  
The door opened suddenly, and John plastered a half-smile on his face. He immediately felt guilty about it- Sherlock saw through everything, everyone, especially him- and he inwardly cringed as he saw the belittling glare flickering in the silvered eyes.  
  
"I'm no longer tired," Sherlock declared with finality. "Go back to sleep."  
  
"I didn't sleep," John replied honestly. He followed Sherlock into the sitting room, fully aware he was like an eager puppy at the heels of the mother. "I couldn't sleep, and I think we should talk."  
  
Sherlock collapsed on the sofa with a rebellious thump, purposefully turning his face in profile, away from John. "I have nothing to say."  
  
"Then I will talk, and you listen," John said firmly. He dared to step over and sit next to Sherlock, their hips brushing as he sank beside him. To his relief, Sherlock remained exactly where he was, even though he had plenty of space to shift away.  
  
"I have no need to listen to you. You're upset over my occasional habit, you're offended I accused you as to being the cause of this little 'episode', and you want to fill my ears with some drivel about wanting to set things right. You also could be considering asking me back to bed, and in exactly five minutes you'll fetch me a glass of water; the doctor in you ingrained to try to remedy my condition as quickly as possible." Sherlock tossed his head dramatically, still avoiding John's gaze. "Could we skip the conversation and you leave me to my musings?"  
  
"No."  
  
Sherlock's brows rose to hide in the messy curls as John slid from the sofa, kneeling between his knees. John's hands gripped his bare feet, the sudden contact stealing both their next breaths. John felt a small flush of pleasure; it wasn't often he could surprise his friend, but he'd seemed to manage it just now.  
  
"Yes, all that's true, what you said," John said quietly. "And I'm going to repeat myself because it bears repeating. Whatever's caused you to do this, whether it was me or not, please tell me when it happens again. I'll do whatever it takes. Just don't do this again."  
  
Sherlock's brow furrowed as he stared into the painful, humble honesty. A moment of silence passed between them, neither moving, barely breathing. When Sherlock finally spoke, it was in a thready whisper out of respect for the quiet.  
  
"Why."  
  
"Because I-," John paused, unable to keep the anxiety fluttering across his face. _'Because I love you'_ felt like the right thing to say, but-  
  
John was tired of _buts_ and _ifs_ and _if whens._ If it had been anyone else, John would've immediately corrected himself, worried over what they would think. But this was _Sherlock._ He'd know exactly what John meant.  
  
"B-Because I love you, you stupid git," John said through gritted teeth. "I care so much for you, and much more for your health than you do, and doing this to yourself _and me_ has thrown me into a panic. I refuse to sit here and respect your personal rights to destroy yourself. Either I keep you here with me, or I'm going down with you. _That's_ your only choice here, and damn you, I won't go down without a fight."  
  
The way Sherlock's delicate lips turned into a small, mysterious smile beaded John's forehead with sweat.  
  
"Why, Doctor, _there's_ your backbone. Should give it more exercise."  
  
John slumped to the floor, a string of laughter bubbling from his chest. "You give me plenty. Gods, Sherlock. Don't. Just- Don't do that again, I won't put up with it."  
  
"Even if I drive you mad?"  
  
"I think I'm already there."  
  
Sherlock primly crossed his legs, and John loved and hated the smug grin on the angular face. "At least we're on the same page now. Can you sleep now?"  
  
"Maybe after I find your stash and toss it."  
  
" _Fine._ " Sherlock sighed in defeat, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "False bottom, third drawer."  
  
"Thank you." John stood, his mirth fading as he reached down to pet the matted hair gently. "Thank you."  
  
Sherlock peeked up at him through his eyelashes, his expression serious. "Yes, John."


	8. Researching With Sherlock (Chap 3)

The sharp, familiar ache woke John, and he groaned as he rolled his shoulder experimentally. He froze when long fingers feathered his short hair.  
  
Warm thighs. Dressing gown. Sitting room. Sunlight.  John vaguely remembered pitching over into Sherlock's lap sometime during the night, and apparently he'd remained there for hours. He took a deep breath and shifted, prepared to sit up, but the hand massaging his scalp felt too damn good to move just yet.  
  
"I've been thinking." Sherlock's voice was entirely too alert.  
  
"Not surprising," John yawned. "Been up all night?"  
  
"I don't require sleep, I require stimulation."  
  
John sighed, poking the leg beneath his face irritably. "Your body does."  
  
"Perhaps. Are you fully awake? I've been waiting _extremely_ patiently."  
  
"I'm flattered," John replied dryly. He struggled to a sitting position, still half-turned toward his friend. "And you've _oh so patiently_ been waiting to enlighten me?"  
  
"Indeed."  
  
John bit his lip as Sherlock shifted, flowing over to settle gracefully in his lap, and somehow John's hands found themselves smoothing the slight curve of Sherlock's hips. Sherlock was keeping up his new habit of zero personal space, so hopefully he wasn't still miffed about yesterday.  
  
Definitely not upset, if John could read his friend at all. The eyes were still overly bright, but genuine and earnest as they darted and searched his face for something.  
  
"Right, what's this you've been pondering then?"  
  
"I have a proposition." Sherlock was nearly vibrating in excitement, and John felt a thrill run down his spine. "Thirty days, a trial period of a month; that should be more than enough, I'd wager."  
  
"…For?"  
  
Sherlock's enthusiasm dimmed somewhat as he leveled a serious expression at him. "This morning I've considered all that we do and don't do, on a daily and monthly basis. I've come to the conclusion that we already function as if we're a couple, and-," there was a short hesitation, "-I want a relationship with you."  
  
John blinked, silent for a few beats before opening his mouth. Sherlock held up a hand- dangerously close to his cheek- and John snapped it shut.  
  
"I am fully aware of your social and personal concerns," Sherlock continued sternly. "Thus, the event of a trial period with no consequences afterward, no matter the outcome. What say you?"  
  
John slowly released the breath he'd been holding. His hands had unconsciously dug into flesh, causing Sherlock to move slightly, and that- that felt entirely too good to think about just yet. Swallowing past a dry throat, he nodded.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Sherlock arched a brow. "Yes? Just like that?"  
  
"I don't see how it'll change things much," John said too quickly, gesturing widely at the room. "It's like you said, we're- well, we're close already. How's this going to be any different?"  
  
Sherlock straightened, a mad gleam in his eye. "I want to sleep in your bed for the duration of the month, sleep terrors or no. Or you in mine, whichever."  
  
John had no problem there. "Sure."  
  
"And I will attempt to understand all these mundane actions you go through every day."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
Sherlock's nose flared in disgust and spoke through gritted teeth. "Normal things that you do when you leave the flat without me."  
  
John chuckled, poking Sherlock's chest. "You'll be disappointed. It's all-,"  
  
Sherlock leaned in, their noses nearly touching, eyes burning with intensity. John was pressed back into the cushions, pinned by the lithe body atop his. "I want to see what boring things you take care of for me."  
  
"That's a switch."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"So that's it, then?" John smiled again casually.  
  
"No." Sherlock frowned, obviously frustrated. "The point of the exercise is while little may change in our daily actions, they will yet be different."  
  
Sherlock was so close, practically laying on him, all eagerness and long limbs and heat. John could barely breathe. "Different how?" he whispered uncertainly.  
  
"Because our actions will have a greater depth of meaning." A pale hand snaked up between them, ghosting down the side of John's face in a soft caress, the blazing eyes boring into his.  
  
John shivered, a small gasp escaping his parted lips, and Sherlock froze, his hand hovering at the nape of his neck.  
  
"Was that a good or bad reaction?"  
  
"Good," John huffed. "Very good."  
  
The satisfaction that lit Sherlock's face sparked another frisson down John's back. "Understand now?"  
  
"I- think so. Yes. Think so."  
  
"Excellent." Sherlock withdrew to his side of the sofa suddenly, watching John with curious eyes. "I'm parched. Fetch me some water."  
  
John's eyes narrowed as he panted a few breaths, trying to recollect his wits. "Now look here..."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Just 'cause we're doing this doesn't mean I'm truly your keeper now." John waved a hand at him. "You did this to yourself, get your own water."  
  
Sherlock sniffed, but his lips betrayed him with a small amused smile. "I was just giving you an opportunity to see after my health. A bonding experience, you know."  
  
"I can see right through that, so don't think you can manipulate me that easy."  John laughed, rubbing a shaky hand over his face. "So. So, this mean we're gonna be doing even more things together now?"  
  
John had tried to affect a teasing manner, but the implications hit them both at the same time. Wide eyes stared into each other for the span of a heartbeat before John continued awkwardly.  
  
"I, you know, just meant something like-,"  
  
"Intercourse?"  
  
"-shopping or goi-  _oh god what?!_ "  
  
Sherlock steepled his fingers and peered at John over them. "That wasn't a no."  
  
 _"No!"_  
  
Sherlock's eyes sparkled with mischief. "But the _data,_ John! Think of the data I'll be missing!"  
  
"Hang your data! I'm not your experiment!" John paused, his chuckles fading. "Wait- I'm not- This isn't an experiment to you. Tell me, Sherlock. I _won't_ be your guinea pig."  
  
Sherlock's smile widened. "I have set my wishes within the parameter of a theoretical experiment so you will be able to fully participate without guilt. I, however, see it as less of an experiment and more as a grace period of thirty days to change your mind."  
  
John swallowed thickly, his eyes sliding to the left in embarrassment. "Change my mind about what?"  
  
"Don't act stupid, John. You're not. Well, most of the time."  
  
John let the backhanded compliment slip past. "I'm not- We're not going to do _that._ What you joked about. Right?"  
  
"Not unless you beg for it."  
  
"I'm serious!" John knew his face was red by now, and it was difficult to meet Sherlock's amused glance, but somehow he managed it.  
  
"So am I," Sherlock replied placidly with a hint of confusion. "I am extremely serious about this entire proposal, though I tossed that comment in there to hear you laugh. And gauge your reaction," he added thoughtfully, "but mostly to hear you laugh. No, we will do nothing in the physical realm that you're uncomfortable with."  
  
There were many replies John could've thrown out, but it was easier to fixate on the simpler things. "Why'd you wanna make me laugh?"  
  
Sherlock stared back with a slight furrow in his brow. "You're the only one who laughs around me, John," he said bluntly. "Mrs. Hudson is a dearheart, but you… You _mean_ it, when you laugh."  
  
John's throat closed, a prickle of sadness weighing him down. Not knowing what to say, he stood and tottered off toward the kitchen. "I'll get you that water, shall I?"  
  
"Thank you, John."  
  
Something about the way Sherlock said his name this time, with the _n_ drawled slightly, as if he _savoured_ saying it, made John's skin tingle once again.


	9. Researching With Sherlock (Chap 4)

John had almost convinced Sherlock to accept one of the chocolate biscuits when his mobile began buzzing on the table before them. Sherlock sat back with a disgusted-yet-interested glance, and John mourned the headway he'd made with getting Sherlock to eat. He picked up the phone and accepted the call without seeing the number.  
  
"Hello? Yes?"  
  
"John, it's Sarah. How are you?"  
  
John noted with interest that Sherlock's frown dug deeper. "Getting on. You?"  
  
"I barely have time to turn around," Sarah replied breathlessly. "Look, I could really use you as a stand-in today. I'm down two physicians and it's Saturday and it's a circus here. More than happy to cut you a cheque for your time if you could come down for the day."  
  
"The day?" John hesitated, giving Sherlock a once-over. He wasn't surprised to see anticipation lit in the silvered eyes. "Yes, alright."  
  
"Oh, thank you, John-,"  
  
"But…" John bit his lip, pleased to see Sherlock lean in unconsciously. "One condition."  
  
"At this moment, you could've turned blue and be speaking in tongues and I wouldn't care."  
  
"Sherlock's coming with me."  
  
There was quiet on the other end for a few seconds, and John and Sherlock shared a silent, guilty laugh. "John, I don't think-,"  
  
"He'll behave." John glared at his friend to indicate he was giving orders. "Promise. He'll just sit in a corner and use up some oxygen. Won't even know he's there."  
  
"…Is that neces-,"  
  
"Quite, or otherwise I'm afraid I'm not free today."  
  
" _Ouch,_ John. That's really low." Sarah sighed heavily, her voice lowering. "He's listening, isn't he?"  
  
"Mm-hm."  
  
"If he does as you say, then- then _fine,_ I just need a warm body to get through these files. I've got a line of people stretching to the _hallways,_ John!"  
  
"Yes, right, be there in a half hour or so. _We_ will," he added thoughtfully, then clicked the phone off.  
  
"You really want me there?" Sherlock blurted, springing into action and scrabbling under the sofa for shoes.  
  
"You said you wanted to see what mundane stuff I do," John reminded him playfully, standing and kicking a pair of boots over. "Should get dressed properly before going out."  
  
Sherlock nodded as he ran for the door. " _Finally._ Something to _do._ "  
  
"It's ordinary work, Sherlock," John called after him as he followed. " _Boring_ work."  
  
"That's what I signed on for," Sherlock yelled back amicably, and John was surprised to feel a rush of pleasure.  
  
He didn't have time to shower; John had to make do with swapping his clothes for fresh ones and dragging his fingers clumsily through his hair. By the time he returned downstairs, Sherlock was dressed sharp as ever and pacing. John felt completely underdressed next to his friend, though that had stopped bothering him a short week after knowing Sherlock. Sherlock didn't judge; he was always spiffed up whether they were going out to eat or prowl around a corpse.  
  
The drive to the clinic was quiet, and John was content to idly switch between staring out the window and at Sherlock. The genius seemed eager but obviously putting on a show of being outwardly calm.. John paid the cabbie and led Sherlock up the flagged stone steps, pausing when he felt a hint of a touch on the back of his shoulder.  
  
"John." Sherlock's voice was quiet, barely carrying over the sound of traffic. His smile was a bit manic, but that was the norm.  
  
"Hm?" John pressed his shoulder into the touch automatically, and Sherlock solidified it.  
  
"I won't speak unless spoken to," Sherlock continued, the glee in his voice contrasting with his serious gaze. "I'll sit in the corner as you dictate and be the very model of decorum."  
  
" _You?_ Decorum? Cor, Sherlock, you do that and you'll give _me_ a heart attack." John shook his head, chuckling softly. "I know we'll both get bored, so why don't you do something for me."  
  
Sherlock leaned in; the negligence to personal space rule apparently applied in public as well. "What?"  
  
"Between patients, give me a rundown of what you see?" John grinned, feeling rather childish and pleased. "All their dirty little secrets that you can pick out. Will help the time pass. If you feel like it."  
  
"Oh, that requires little brain power," Sherlock scoffed, waving a hand dramatically. "But if it will amuse you…"  
  
John could see the enthusiasm Sherlock was having difficulty containing. "Absolutely."  
  
"Agreed, then."  
  
Sarah was none too happy with John's tagalong guest, but didn't comment as she set them up in John's old office with a stack of patient files. Sherlock skipped a chair into the corner at John's left, well within eyesight but a respectable distance from the consulting desk. He grabbed a pen and pad of paper before sitting, quiet and seemingly aloof.  
  
And then the patients began drifting in, and John fell into a comfortable routine. Most of them were common colds and viruses, worried mothers with sneezing children and the susceptible elderly.  
  
…Or so he would've thought, based on his professional opinion. Sherlock began passing him notes, sometimes too impatient and thrusting the slips over before the person in question had left. The teary-eyed teenager had a secret boyfriend. The well-dressed accountant with a persistent cough was addicted to heroin. The runny-nosed child was adopted by a mother who didn't want him. The greying woman had _fifteen_ cats.  
  
John kept every note, piling them into his trouser pocket, determined to ask Sherlock how he knew each and every one once they were home. It was all such a guilty pleasure, having Sherlock hovering nearby, feeding him the delightful- and at times heartbreaking- observations, and they shared several rounds of laughs in the brief times they were alone in the room.  
  
The day was winding down- amazingly without a single mishap- and the waiting room was becoming blessedly empty when a burly, heavy-set man came in the office, complaining of a myriad of common symptoms. John recognized the stubborn countenance that was covered by a thin veneer of civility, and was dutifully polite as he could manage.  
  
Whilst writing in the man's file, Sherlock elbowed John and slid a paper into his hands. Expecting another brilliant deduction, he thumbed it open and read quickly.  
  
_This man is a pompous git._  
  
John began laughing before he could think, and Sherlock grinned merrily. The patient immediately took offense , rising from his chair and standing to his full height to loom over John.  
  
"And what's this? Something funny strike you, doctor?"  
  
"No! I mean, yes, but it's unconcerned with you," John said hastily, giving an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Dr. Roylott, here's your-,"  
  
"Damn your prescription." The man huffed, glaring at them both. "Is this a game? What kind of doctor are you? One of those brainless twats the public schools produce, no doubt!"  
  
John hid a soft sigh, finishing his signature on the doctor's blue papered pad. He'd planned to not comment, give the red-faced man what he needed and hopefully let the situation pass.  
  
Sherlock had no such plans.  
  
"You should be grateful you've had the opportunity to call upon Doctor Watson," Sherlock said in a low, dangerous tone.  
  
"Sherlock!" John stared, both worried and a bit too proud of Sherlock's statement. Unfortunately, both men in the staring match ignored him.  
  
"So I can be laughed at and mocked before my face? A great thrill!"  
  
"Perhaps you shouldn't make it so easy for us to do so," Sherlock sneered. "Habitual late and lazy riser, living off your children's income because you are too stubborn with old family pride to acquire a job. Severe tobacco addiction along with drink- scotch and whiskey, mostly-,"  
  
John had been pinwheeling his arms, begging for Sherlock to stop, knocking over his empty teacup in the process. The patient's chest puffed importantly, the bloodshot eyes wide with anger.  
  
"Rubbish and poppycock! Where do you get off, young man, accusing a gentleman of my stature-,"  
  
Sherlock stood, easily towering over the man, every movement outlined with irritation. "You possess no stature of any relevance."  
  
"I think it's best you leave," John said loudly, thrusting the prescription paper into the man's hand. "Thank you, good day, Dr. Roylott." He shut the door in the man's face, drowning the rant that was still tumbling from the man's cracked lips.  
  
"Where do _I_ get off?" Sherlock muttered, pacing around the desk. "Where does _he_ get off?"  
  
"Sherlock." John grabbed his shoulders, squeezing them gently as he halted the genius mid-step. Sherlock glared, though John could see his anger wasn't directed at him.  
  
"Tell me you do not put up with that abuse regularly when you come here."  
  
"There are difficult patients," John explained calmly. "He's one of them, it happens. I can defend my own reputation, Sherlock. There's no need to rescue me, but it was charming."  
  
"Oh. _Oh._ " Sherlock's expression shifted subtly, but John could easily see the anxiety. "I've emasculated you in front of a stranger."  
  
"I… suppose so," John chuckled. "What happened to your promise? Be quiet and all that?"  
  
"He was insulting you," Sherlock returned churlishly.  
  
"And? People do that. _You_ do that!" John said with a laugh. "Why's it all so important at this moment?"  
  
"Because he's an ignorant fool concerned with his own invented importance, and because you and I are together. I will not sit quietly and let someone browbeat my partner- colleague- _whatever-you-wish-to-call-yourself._ "  
  
John blinked up at him, truly surprised by the outburst. "Sherlock, what… What am I, then?"  
  
Sherlock shifted restlessly, still caught in John's grip. "Any number of fancy social idioms."  
  
"Such as?" They had precious few seconds left before Sarah came in, perhaps even with Dr. Roylott in tow to deal with the inevitable complaint. He pressed closer, searching Sherlock's inscrutable face for the telltale twitch of emotion.  
  
"You're _John,_ " Sherlock replied quietly. "You defy all the inadequate labels."  
  
"That's funny." John cringed as a hand slapped against the door, Sarah's call for them muffled. "That's how I've always thought of _you._  Me? I'm an open book to you, Sherlock."  
  
"Even if you are, you're a fascinating one to read."  
  
John's mouth dropped open, Sherlock's hands crawling up his sides as they leaned in, and his mind was whirling with all the _buts_ and _ifs_ and _oh god he's going to-_  
  
And the door opened, and Sarah was exceptionally furious, and the moment passed. The lost answers angered John, and he rifled the papers on his desk and pressed them into Sarah's arms before grabbing Sherlock's hand, leading him out of the building roughly.  
  
Sherlock looked perplexed but followed willingly; and there was a maddening hint of a smile on the sculpted lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References here include:  
> -The Blind Banker, BBC episode  
> -The Adventure of the Speckled Band, original Sherlock Holmes story (my personal favourite Holmes case)


	10. Researching With Sherlock (Chap 5)

The circular conversation on the ride back to the flat only flared John's annoyance.  
  
" _What_ were you going to say?" John asked for the second time, jaw set stubbornly and giving his question a hard edge. Sherlock only looked more confused.  
  
"I had not thought of anything else to say. I merely responded to your self-depreciating comment of being an 'open book'."  
  
"You were going to say something!" John gestured between them. "Or do something? Don't act thick, I know you were."  
  
"John," Sherlock spoke in a maddeningly calm tone, "I had no premeditated intentions at that moment."  
  
"You were groping me! Right there, in the office, and you were going to say something, I could _feel_ it!"  
  
Sherlock looked startled before he huffed a laugh. "I did absolutely no such thing. You're reading a lot more into this than occurred."  
  
John clamped his mouth shut, crossing his arms and purposefully staring out the window. A part of him was frightened, that he _had_ thought too much of Sherlock's hands wandering onto his waist, that he had been expecting something completely different than Sherlock.  
  
That some of his ill temper was due to not finding out if Sherlock would've actually kissed him.  
  
"Why do you even want this?" John snapped as he bolted from the cab before it completely stopped. He tossed the fare at the driver and stood on the curb, hands thrust angrily into his pockets, shoulders hunched as he waited for Sherlock. "Why a relationship? Why me? Okay, that's a fairly obvious one but- You're positively allergic to showing emotion. Whatever put this into your head?"  
  
Sherlock stepped up in front of him and stared down curiously. "You want to discuss that here?"  
  
"I want to know why," John shot back. "And I want to know _now,_ before you start driving me crazy with this new venue. You said it's not an experiment to you, so what the hell is it?"  
  
Sherlock's hands fluttered as he formed an answer; his eyes widened when John grasped them and arranged them where they'd been a half hour ago, just above the hipbone, digging into the stretchy sweater.  
  
"Back to the simpler question then," John fumed. "What were you going to do?"  
  
Recognition dawned on Sherlock's face. "You anticipated we would embrace and kiss."  
  
John could feel his face reddening, but that didn't stop his hasty words. "Yes, now tell me why I thought that. Are you messing with my head? I have never thought of- I have never wanted to-," He bit his lip, glaring up at Sherlock, though his gaze softened as the thin fingers burrowed in and massaged at his waist.  
  
"I am not manipulating you," Sherlock replied uneasily, the confused tilt to his head returning, "but I am, in a sense, baiting you. You are not obliged to respond or reply, though I'm pleased to see that you are."  
  
"Then why'd you tell me I was reading too much into it?"  
  
"That was before I knew you'd expected intimate physical contact."  
  
"How could you not've guessed that?" John sighed heavily, rubbing irritably at his eyes.  
  
"I am as uncertain in these waters as you are, John," Sherlock replied quietly. One hand slipped down, thumbing the small line of flesh he'd found between sweater and trousers. "I can recite the chemical and psychological attributes of attraction, but never having experienced it myself, it's… It's a lot of data to absorb and categorize, and it only comes sporadically- never on demand- and I haven't mentally collated nearly enough to form a course of action. Acting upon intuition chafes at my very core, but it is the only option I have at the moment."  
  
John lost about every third word, distracted by the warm digit sliding over his skin, but he heard enough to get the gist of Sherlock's confession. He sucked in a quick breath, and let it go just as rapidly.  
  
"You're attracted to me."  
  
Sherlock's brow furrowed. "That goes without saying."  
  
"No, no you need to say these sorts of things." John shook his head, trying to focus.  
  
"I stated I wanted a relationship with you. I assumed attraction was implied."  
  
John closed his eyes, blotting out the frustratingly inquisitive face looming over him. "No, it- Maybe. I need to hear important bits like that in so many words. I don't jump to conclusions like you, remember? Spell it out for me, for god's sake, so I can keep what's left of my sanity intact."  
  
"Oh. Fine, if you insist." Sherlock brightened, his entire palm now flush with John's skin as he bent to his eyelevel. John peeked one eye open comically. "I am mentally, physically, and I suspect emotionally, attracted to you, Doctor Watson. Hence this trial period."  
  
John slowly let out a breath as he forced himself to relax. "And you want a month to make me come 'round to that idea."  
  
Sherlock nodded emphatically. "Yes, that's it exactly. See? You're not as slow-witted as you profess to be."  
  
"Shut up," John growled. His stomach had gone squirrely, though not in an entirely unpleasant way. "Just- Shut up."  
  
Sherlock's eyes were dancing with merriment, already perceiving his victory. "You wanted me to explain, and now you want me to be quiet? You're the one being difficult this time around."  
  
"Just- _Stop._ I can't think _._ "  
  
Sherlock released his hold, taking a healthy step backwards and folding his hands behind his back. "Better?"  
  
"No." John immediately missed the hands, the heat, the closeness, and he drifted to close the space between them unconsciously. "Whatever you've got, whatever makes you feel so comfortable is in your touch, too."  
  
"Interesting," Sherlock remarked mildly, replacing his hands to mold to John's sides. "You're alluding that I am both calming and addictive. That's an uncommon mix of-,"  
  
"Sherlock." John sounded breathless. "Just do it. And don't you dare ask what."  
  
Sherlock looked a bit put out at the last command, but his shoulders twitched in a far-too-casual shrug as he leaned down again. John kept his eyes peeled open wide, staring into Sherlock's clouded gaze as their lips pressed gently together.  
  
There was no thunder crashing overhead, no lightning sizzling from the sky to strike them. No shouts of outrage from people passing by. The world didn't come to a grinding halt- though it did feel like time slowed considerably.  
  
But there was a curl of familiar warmth that lit in John's belly, spurring him to grip Sherlock's shoulders and lean into the kiss roughly. To his surprise and delight, Sherlock immediately returned the fervor, his hands kneading John's hips as he somehow managed to lick and part the lips beneath his.  
  
And once their tongues met and twined, John's thoughts melted under a deluge of horror and ecstasy. He was just becoming used to the sensation of Sherlock devouring his face when it abruptly ended, and he scowled and pawed at the slender arms.  
  
"Why'd you-,"  
  
"Too much data," Sherlock said crisply. John's frown deepened.  
  
"Data? What d'you mean, _data?_   I thought this wasn't some ex-,"  
  
"Too much input, John." Sherlock shifted restlessly, giving John an apologetic look. "Just too much at once for me."  
  
"Oh. Right." That, John could understand. He delicately removed Sherlock's hands from his waist and nodded toward the front door. "Inside, then?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said gratefully, striding past him and throwing it open. "John, I- I need some quiet."  
  
"Sure." John followed him in at a leisurely pace, startled when Sherlock ran up to him and thrust John's phone in his face.  
  
"Sarah texted you forgot your cheque and requires I not come with you to pick it up."  
  
"Makes sense," John chuckled nervously, palming his phone into his pocket. "Wanted quiet, you said?"  
  
Sherlock sighed noisily. "Yes. And why can't she just post it?"   
  
"Because- not that you'd know it- we need the money," John replied with a wry smile. "Look, just sit and think and do whatever it is you need to do. Just don't set anything on fire 'til I get back."  
  
Sherlock nodded, gaze thoughtful as he turned and walked back into the sitting room. John waited until he heard the violent _whump_ of Sherlock collapsing on the sofa before letting the door click closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References here are:  
> -The Blind Banker, BBC episode


	11. Researching With Sherlock (Chap 6)

Grabbing a cab from their flat wasn't usually difficult; Baker Street was a busy one, a prime side-outlet of some of the major roads that crisscrossed London.  
  
However, the second empty cab passed by him as he yelled and waved his arms changed his anger into a pensive anxiety.  
  
And when the sleek black car pulled up beside him, he threw his hands in the air and let loose a string of curses. He opened the door so he could direct his tirade at whoever was inside.  
  
"I've somewhere to be, Mycroft!" Mycroft of course, was conveniently absent, but the pretty woman texting could send on the message. "I don't have time for one of your dramatic little abductions, I've got to-,"  
  
"Get your cheque?" The woman flipped up a slip of paper. "It's already been collected. Please get in, Mister., ah…   _Doctor_   Watson."  
  
As annoyed as he was, John was thankful he wouldn't have to face Sarah. He slid in on the black leather seat and slammed the door after him. He crossed his arms defiantly after accepting the cheque, determined to not speak another syllable. Unfortunately, he knew that would make no great impression as the woman barely registered his presence for the entire ride.   
  
So he settled for thinking about Sherlock. What all this meant. What it should mean. The rush of thoughts overwhelmed him immediately, and he took a deep breath to calm down. A list- that would help categorize the chaos.  
  
 _Okay. Right then. Fact 1: 'I am mentally, physically, and I suspect emotionally, attracted to you, Doctor Watson.'_  
  
John blinked, feeling a thrill of surprise at going over the words again. Sherlock didn't lie, no matter how much John liked to tease that he did. His friend was devilishly careful about what information he did give, but he didn't outright lie to John. Ergo, he was speaking the truth; ergo, Sherlock wanted a relationship for a deeper reason than a mere tryst- or experiment.  
  
And how long had that desire existed? A few weeks? A few months? Why hadn't he gotten wind of that?  
  
John made a stern face, pushing the flooding questions aside.  
  
 _Fact 2: Sherlock is- is-_  
  
John paused, wondering if there was a large enough description to include everything that was Sherlock. He was abnormally gorgeous with an artistic, dramatic flair. John didn't have to be gay to realise Sherlock was a looker.   
  
Sherlock was brilliant, a true genius coupled with more than his fair share of eccentricities. It was torture to get him to eat and drink enough fluids to keep the too-thin body functioning, but it was all worth it when he was dragging John all over London and the countryside, hopping cabs and trains and walking at furious paces to the next puzzle piece, listening to the stream of absent-minded intelligence that flowed so easily.  
  
But Sherlock also had just enough raw softness beneath the marbled exterior to completely endear himself to John. His emotional side was stunted, which lent Sherlock some his social awkwardness. But there were times, when John was tired or in pain or just sitting there woolgathering that he could see Sherlock's gaze melt and shift affectionately. Sherlock had been secretly sneaking in to ensure John's restful sleep for months- that took a dedication John had rarely experienced. And Sherlock didn't touch other people, even if he didn't own the concept of personal space; though with John, there had never been such a distinction, and especially lately. His mouth twitched in a smile as he remembered Sherlock climbing into his lap over the last week.  
  
 _…Fact 2: Sherlock is my life._  
  
John blinked rapidly, knowing he should probably be surprised or even concerned, but it made sense. It felt right. There was nothing strange about that fact, no matter what logic might have to say about it.  
  
 _Fact 3: That was a damn good snog._  
  
And now his ears were burning, and he hastily turned to look out the window again. It had been several months since he had dated; there had been a string of exhaustive trips for clients and cases and there had simply been no time. It had been a while since anyone had touched him like _that,_ so maybe… Maybe that's why he'd been so hungry for it?  
  
John was fairly adept at lying to himself, but this was one subject he couldn't. He hadn't just wanted _a_ kiss, he'd wanted _Sherlock_ to kiss him. It wasn't about whether Sherlock was a man or not, or about simple curiosity, or baiting the genius back to see if he'd respond.   
  
_Fact 4: I want to kiss Sherlock again. And again, and four more times on top of that._  
  
The last vestiges of his shame were tossed out the proverbial window at that admittance, though he buried his face in his hands and rubbed vigorously. So he hadn't wanted to kiss a man before, and he still didn't- Sherlock wasn't a mere man, after all.   
  
He sighed as the Diogenes Club sign flashed by his line of sight and he exited the car without prompting. Past the ostentatious doors, the snobby butler and red-carpeted hallway; John's feet automatically took him to Mycroft's hidden room within a hidden room. The man in question was waiting for him, wrapped in an expensive suit and plush armchair. John ignored the pleasant enough greeting and nod toward a seat.  
  
"Not here on a social call," John said in a clipped tone. He folded his hands behind his back respectfully, but his gaze was hard. "Get on with it."  
  
"Sherlock said he wanted some quiet, did he not?" Mycroft's smile was pinched, the wave of his hand irritated. "You've enough time to sit for a moment. Please."  
  
John's brow furrowed as sank into the chair, sitting on the edge with his back straight; ready to leave as soon as he could. "How did you-,"  
  
"This is partly what I wished to discuss with you." Mycroft carefully folded the newspaper in his lap and set it aside before staring frankly back at John. "For certain safety reasons, I've kept my brother under surveillance for several years."  
  
"Surveillance?" John's hands curled into fists, thighs tightening in preparation to spring at the calmly smirking man. A part of him registered how the more 'civilized' brother roused him to anger much more quickly. "Are you- You're not saying-,"  
  
"John, you don't know what my dear brother was like before you met him," Mycroft continued smoothly. "As reckless as you may think him to be now, he tempted Death with alarming regularity. After his overdose five years ago, I had camera equipment installed in his flat." The small eyes hardened. "I dare not be caught unawares again, as it could cost him his life."  
  
John's hands relaxed, worrying a thread at the piped edging. "Overdose?"  
  
"It wasn't intentional." Mycroft's eyes glazed, seeing far beyond the room they were in. "Luck took Lestrade in to present him with a fishy something or other and found him. I was halfway across the globe at the time."  
  
John let go of a slow breath. "So when you say you worry over him, you… you actually _mean_ it?"  
  
"Of course I do." Mycroft's voice was still even and cultured, but there was a hint of steel as well. "However, after you and Sherlock's escapade on the street this evening, I am considering withdrawing this protective measure."  
  
His throat went dry, and John swallowed with some difficulty. "You saw that, then?"  
  
"Oh yes, as did half of London passing that way." The smirk returned, an indulgent one that had John squaring his shoulders defiantly. "I don't think my delicate sensibilities could take watching your new… extracurricular activities."  
  
"Don't, then," John spat angrily. "You've no right to invade our private space to begin with!"  
  
"Unfortunately, I've come to the same conclusion by a different route."  
  
John stood, jutting his chin as he glared down at the other man. "So that's it then? Brought me here to parade your penchant for being nosy in front of me?"  
  
Mycroft sighed, pushing himself to his feet as well. The small eyes were narrowed again. "No, John. What I need for you to understand is that in all my life, I've _never_ entrusted another living soul with the care of my younger brother." He leaned in, well inside John's space now. "And what I want to know is, are you a worthy man to pass that responsibility on to?"  
  
A laugh bubbled up and out, encouraged by the sharp frown digging at Mycroft's mouth. "Wait- Wait. You're giving me the whole 'hurt my sibling and I'll tear into you' speech, aren't you? Is that it?"  
  
"That goes without saying," Mycroft said crisply. "I need your personal assurance that you'll meticulously see after his physical as well as mental health."  
  
John flung his arms to the side in exasperation. "What do you think I've been doing this past year?!"  
  
"Still." Mycroft gave him a disapproving once-over.  
  
"This is hard for you." John tilted his head, trying to not smile too widely. "You won't have Sherlock under your thumb anymore."  
  
"It's not that!" Mycroft stepped back, murmuring a half-sincere apology. "Sherlock has given me more than enough cause to turn my hair prematurely grey. You may think you've seen him at his worst, but he's fallen much further than you've experienced so far. I am not pleased to leave you as his first line of defense. No offense meant, John."  
  
"Yeah. Right." John glowered. "Well, he's off illegal stimulants now, you know."  
  
"So I heard. Time will tell."  
  
"You'll see." John paused as a flicker of deep-set concern washed through Mycroft's expression, and he nodded respectfully. "Look, I'll take care of him, alright? He's abrasive and manic and all sorts of rough around the edges but it's not all that bad. There's always been something there that just feels right; his moods rarely drive me crazy and I can live with the corpse bits floating about the flat and have no issues yelling at him about gunfire at three in the morning. He goes on like a spoiled prat but then he also…"  
  
Mycroft's smile widened, melting into the most genuine one John had ever seen grace his face. "He's very vulnerable."  
  
"Very human," John agreed with a quiet laugh. "But I'd never tell him that."  
  
"Oh, no. You're liable to end up with scorpions betwixt your sheets."  
  
"Would he be that subtle about it?" John grinned, and he was rewarded with a soft chuckle. "Look, give me your number or something so I can-,"  
  
"Give your mobile to my assistant. She'll program it in for you."  
  
"Right. Will do." John glanced around, signaling the conversation was at it's end. "I'll just, ah, see my way out then?"  
  
"Thank you, John."  
  
"Yeah." John took on the double meaning and nodded again before retreating hastily. He thrust his phone at the woman in the car, tapping his feet impatiently as it pulled away and back into traffic. After a moment to settle and calm, he began to review his conversation with Mycroft. His musings lasted until they stopped by his flat, and he didn't even say goodbye as he slipped from the vehicle and ran to the door.  
  
 _Fact 5: Sherlock is my respon- No. He's just… mine._  
  
Grinning, John flung open the door and made it up two steps before he froze, gagging and covering his nose with a sleeve. The putrid stench in the air was cloying, bleeding through his sweater sleeve in seconds. Coughing on every inhale, he climbed the stairs quickly and burst into the sitting-room.   
  
"Oh, hullo John. You were gone for a while."


	12. Learning With Sherlock (Chap 1)

John barely registered Sherlock's position in the kitchen; instead, he focused on the immediate threat of the two contained fires burning merrily on the table by the sofa.  
  
"Fire _oh Christ fire._ " Even just those few syllables wafted more of the stench into his nostrils, and John coughed thickly as he reached for the clear glass sitting near the fires.  
  
"I wouldn't pour that on them if I were you." Sherlock padded up next to John, giving him a quizzical look. "Unless you wish to spread the experiment to the entire table. It's alcohol."  
  
" _Christ!_ " John repeated, stumbling backwards and into Sherlock's chest. "What- My god, man, have you gone completely 'round the bend? That _smell!_   What's- What's-,"  
  
"You _should_ be able to identify the odor," Sherlock chided, rapping John on the head with a folded newspaper. "Burnt flesh. Specifically eyeballs, in this case. I had two mismatched ones that I froze a few weeks ago. They were reluctant to ignite once thawed, thus the accelerant."  
  
John lurched toward the sink, Sherlock following with a spring in his step. "Eyeballs!"  
  
"Yes, eyeballs. With the optic nerve bundle left intact, as well. You haven't gone deaf in the few hours since I saw you?"  
  
"Fucking hell." John filled a bowl with water and ran back over, sloshing half the contents on each set of flames, which sputtered and died quickly. The smoke curling from the blackened remains sent a fresh wave of nausea through John's stomach.  
  
" _No!_ John! Those were perfect specimens for- Oh." Sherlock trudged over, drooping beside John dejectedly.  
  
"What." John gestured frantically at the damp, charred table. "The fuck."  
  
Sherlock drew himself to his full height with a haughty glare. "If you're attempting to ask why I-,"  
  
" _YesIwanttoknowwhythefuckourtablewasonfire!_ "  
  
"The table wasn't," Sherlock sniffed. "The insulated cooling plates beneath the flesh kept the flames from making contact with the wood."  
  
John tilted his head, giving a murderous stare, and Sherlock continued.  
  
"I was attempting to determine how long it would take, and at what temperature, the eyes would lose their pressurized stability."  
  
John blinked dumbly.  
  
"Ah. Lose their integrity?" Sherlock gave a dramatic flourish with his hands, mimicking a loud _whoosh_ noise.  
  
"Explode?!" John gasped, grabbing Sherlock's shoulders and shaking him as vigorously as he had the strength for. "Don't you ever, _ever_ set fire to our rooms again! Do you hear me?"  
  
"I hear you perfectly fine, there's no need to shout."  
  
"Promise me!"  
  
"I didn't set fire to the room, it was contained neatly atop the-,"  
  
"Don't start a fire in our rooms unless it's in the _bloody fireplace!_ " John shook him again for good measure. "Am I understood?"  
  
Sherlock's brow knitted in a frown, and he picked a bit of lint from John's coat. "You've been to see Mycroft?"  
  
"Nevermind that twat right now. Promise me!"  
  
"Yes, alright," Sherlock said in a long-suffering tone.   
  
"Good," John replied vehemently. "Good. Now. I'm not staying here tonight. Get your coat and scarf. We're leaving."  
  
Sherlock's frown deepened. "You weren't with Sarah?"  
  
" _Get your things!_ " John roared, pointing angrily at Sherlock as he stomped away. " _Now!_ And crack open those windows!"  
  
John didn't utter another word until he'd grabbed his pre-packed overnight bag from his closet and dragged Sherlock outside. He gulped lungfuls of fresh air, horrified to realise he could still taste the curdling stink clinging to both of them.   
  
Sherlock leaned forward slightly, peering down at his gasping friend.  
  
"What did Mycroft want?"  
  
"Don't want to talk about it," John replied through gritted teeth.  
  
"I see. It was about me, then." Sherlock sighed, glancing away and across the street.  
  
John bit back reassuring words, too incensed to smooth ruffled feathers right now. "Right. Where can we hole up for…" He flipped through his wallet, frowning at what little he found. "Forty quid? God, Sherlock, did you drive Mrs. Hudson away too?"  
  
"She's on her monthly visit to her younger sister. Won't be back until late tomorrow." Sherlock stepped up to the kerb, waving for a cab. "I know a place we can stay for free."  
  
"Free?" John perked. "You sure about that?"  
  
"Got the hotel manager out of a mess he'd made of his personal life several years ago. Ah, here." He gestured at a cab that pulled up beside them. "Come along."  
  
John squared his shoulders at Sherlock's command, collapsing rigidly into the car and keeping well to his side of the backseat. Sherlock gave the address and sat back, looking completely relaxed.   
  
Too many thoughts and insults were whirling in John's mind for him to stay quiet for long. He managed five minutes of silence before he flung his arms wide in a desperate gesture. "Why'd you do that?"  
  
Sherlock turned away from the window to stare at him. "It seemed the ideal opportunity. Mrs. Hudson was gone for the night, I had more than adequate specimens, and you-," there was a half-second's hesitation, "-were out for much longer than you'd alluded to."  
  
"Through no fault of my own," John growled.  
  
Sherlock didn't reply, his eyes boring into John's, glinting rhythmically with the passing street lamps. John sucked in a breath to berate him again when he caught a flicker of emotion across the angular face.  
  
"What?" John prompted crabbily. "So I was gone longer than I said. I do that often, not that _you'd_ ever notice! There was no cause to act out like a spoiled child just because I was later than I should've been."  
  
Another awkward silence, though Sherlock still wasn't looking away. John knew he was on the right track, but it was much harder for him to guess at what was going through Sherlock's mind than vice versa. Sherlock had acted out, whether he did it consciously or not, but why?  
  
 _You weren't with Sarah?_  
  
"You thought I was with Sarah all that time?" John said more quietly.  
  
"That was the logical assumption, yes."  
  
"Sherlock." John scooted closer, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. "Are you jealous of her?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
John paused, taken aback by the blunt admission. "What? Why would you be jealous of _Sarah,_ of all people? You do know she barely tolerates my presence nowadays? And after today I doubt I'll ever hear from her again."  
  
"You became intimate with her after knowing her for only three days. You retreated to her flat when you were upset with me. You texted and emailed her twenty-eight out of thirty-one days of the month you officially dated her, and kept in contact at least once a month since."  
  
"You're _actually_ jealous?" John slumped in his seat, staring incredulously at the hardened eyes. It felt so strange having this conversation- one he never would've imagined having with his friend. "Sherlock, she means nothing to me. She's an occasional cheque to help pay the bills, nothing more."  
  
"She meant enough to you to engage in sexual intercourse with her eight times in twenty day timeframe."  
  
John gaped, unsure of how to respond. Sherlock sounded sullen and petulant, and not over the loss of his experiment or being whisked away from his rooms for the night. He was bitter over an ex-girlfriend, and- most disturbingly- John felt a bit giddy over that fact.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning back to the window. "I had no such claim to. We weren't in a relationship."  
  
 _Well, that answers that. He's wanted this for a long time, then. …Maybe I have, too._  
  
He slid the rest of the way across the seat, settling flush against Sherlock's side. When that got him no response, John pushed against the floor with his feet and craned his neck, one hand reaching up to tilt Sherlock's head enough so he could press a quick kiss to the jutting cheekbone.  
  
"Well," John whispered, "guess who I'm with now?"  
  
"I instigated it," Sherlock replied flatly.  
  
"So?" John snapped. His fingers dug fretfully into the muscled throat; Sherlock still wouldn't look at him. "You know exactly how much prodding I need to do something. I'm a lazy devil at times, and a short-sighted one too. I needed you to shove that first step on me. It'll be slow going for a bit but I'm all in, Sherlock. Just be patient."  
  
Sherlock sighed dramatically, but John saw the glimmer of relief on the chiseled expression and sagged gratefully against him.  
  
"I'll attempt to be patient. But only for you, John."  
  
"Best I can get out of you?" John teased, then froze when Sherlock moved suddenly and pressed their lips together.  
  
It wasn't a desperate embrace like it had been earlier, but it was no less passionate. They shifted as their noses bumped awkwardly, trying to find the right slant that maximised pleasure. By the time they were more comfortable, their hands were already pawing at the other's shoulder, and the sweet slide of Sherlock's tongue was tasting John's lips and-  
  
It ended abruptly again, like before, and John was horrified to hear himself whine in protest. Sherlock was grinning, already scrambling to open the door and tug John out into the crisp night air. John hadn't realized the cab had even stopped.  
  
"You have _got_ to stop doing th-," John paused again, staring up and up and up at the brightly-lit building before them. The brick facing was covered in exquisite molding, the merrily glowing windows lined with fancy scrollwork. "What. Sherlock. What's-,"  
  
"The _Corinthia?_   Nice, isn't it? Come on." Sherlock thrust his hands into his pockets, looking flush and entirely too pleased with himself as he jogged toward the entrance. "Stop ogling John, it's _cold_ out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Corinthia is an actual hotel in London. No copyright infringement is intended.


	13. Learning With Sherlock (Chap 2)

John knew he looked like a hopeless tourist, standing in the middle of the grand lobby and gawking in a slow circle, but he was content to simply stare while Sherlock strode up to the desk and demanded one of the receptionist's attention. The chandeliers were most definitely real crystal, sparkling with a thousand pinpoints of light overhead. The plushy furniture was arranged neatly around polished tables, resting atop the most gorgeous fur rugs John had seen in or outside of a magazine.  
  
He felt dirty _,_ with the faint scent of the earlier nastiness eroding off his three year old sweater, his scuffed shoes and his trousers with one defunct pocket. Sherlock, of course, looked perfectly at home in the posh setting with his tailored clothes and impatient demeanor.  
  
Suddenly he wasn't very sure of why Sherlock wanted all this- wanted _him._  
  
Before he could sink further into that depressing thought, a gentle hand on his arm yanked him back to reality. He smiled nervously at the short, prim girl next to him. "Yes, sorry?"  
  
"Do you have reservations… sir?" the woman asked hesitantly, looking him over quickly before plastering on a bright smile.  
  
"Oh- Yes, I mean, I think so-," John glanced at the desk desperately, but Sherlock wasn't in sight.  
  
"I see," she said in a tone that indicated the exact opposite. She pulled up a small computer pad and tapped lazily at it. "If I might have your name, then, sir? I will have you checked in straight away."  
  
"No, ah, you see," John said with a forced chuckle, "I- We kinda just dropped in-,"  
  
"He's with me." Sherlock stepped up behind John and pointedly wrapped a long arm around his shoulders, leaning into him. He dropped a set of shiny keys on the pad in her hands. "I've already spoken to the blithering idiots you keep behind your desk. No penthouse was available, so we're in the River Suite. Show us to our rooms."  
  
"…And _your_ name, sir?"  
  
"Sherlock Holmes."  
  
John grinned at the overt contempt dripping from Sherlock's voice. He was even more delighted when the woman tapped at the pad, then straightened hastily with another false smile.  
  
"Of course, sir! If you please, follow me to the lift."  
  
John snorted, shame and glee wrestling in his stomach. "And you say Mycroft's name opens doors."  
  
"As I said, they owe me a favour or two," Sherlock smirked.  
  
The ride in the lift was uncomfortable, with Sherlock resolutely clinging to his arm and the woman making awkward small talk that neither of them replied to. It was a relief to be shown past a pair of impressive wooden doors, the promise of a bottle of champagne tossed their way as the woman retreated down the hall.  
  
The lobby had been impressive, but the room- _rooms,_ rather, there were two doors off to his left- had John breathless. Blue was the predominate colour, in varied shades and tones across the linen drapes and painted walls. Full bookshelves were scattered about the room, with fancily upholstered furniture splayed casually around a long, low coffee table.  
  
John carefully made his way to one of the doors; it opened into the bedroom, and John couldn't contain his excitement any longer. He turned and nearly ran into Sherlock, who had drifted after him.  
  
"Look! _Look!"_ John gestured wildly behind him. "The bed- I've never seen a bed that huge and look at the books! The lamps! This carpet is marvelous, I could _sleep_ on it-,"  
  
"Piffle. Best part is the view."   
  
John froze, then bolted for the window and tore back the shades. The Thames sparkled below, reflecting the hazy moonlight and the street lights lining the banks.  
  
"Oh- Sherlock, you're right, it's stunning." John glanced up, grinning so widely it hurt. Sherlock was still staring down at him and John paused, wondering if he'd missed something.  
  
"Oh, the Thames. Yes."  
  
John watched in astonishment as Sherlock peered out the window, the sharp profile lit with the soft glow. Then he cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. "Did- Sherlock, did you just _flirt_ with me?"  
  
"I attempted to, but flattery is an exaggeration to stroke the recipient's vanity." Sherlock shrugged nervously. "I, however, merely spoke the truth."  
  
"You _did._ " John gripped his shoulder, turning Sherlock to smile up at him. "That was- Wow. And here I was just thinking I really don't fit into such a grand setting. I mean, have you _seen_ the room?"  
  
"Yes. We're standing in it. Boring."  
  
" _Boring?!_ " John ran to the bed and rolled onto it, sighing exquisitely. "I've never been surrounded by luxury like this. I'm afraid to breathe, let alone touch anything!"  
  
"Meh." Sherlock shrugged again, though he looked pleased. "You can buy expensive things. You can't buy a John."  
  
John sat up quickly, worrying his lower lip in his teeth. His face was reddening, ears warm with a flush, made all the worse by Sherlock's attempted blasé attitude- as if he'd just declared the weather was mild, and wasn't it nice?  
  
He pushed himself to his feet and strode up to Sherlock, their chests mere inches apart. "Did you mean that? About me?"  
  
Sherlock's head tilted slightly. "I… was insinuating that you could have no measurable price."  
  
"Yes; did you mean it?"  
  
"I wouldn't've said it otherwise."  
  
John grabbed his hand and yanked him toward the balcony door, nudging it open and pushing them out into the cold. Sherlock arched a brow, muttering about the chill as John put his hands firmly on the thin shoulders.  
  
"Sherlock, stay there. Stay there until I say you can move, got it?"  
  
"John I'm cold and _mmph-,_ "  
  
Relatively certain Sherlock would follow his order, John wrapped his arms around his neck and surged upward, locking their mouths together desperately. Sherlock recovered quickly, and John gladly parted his lips to the searching tongue.  
  
 _This_ time was sensory overload- like those messy, cheesy ones on TV, like books describe those magical kisses that light up the sky with fireworks. Sherlock's exploration of his mouth set fire to his skin, branding him with pleasurable tingles as he pawed at what skin he could find under the loose scarf.   
  
Then a hand slipped down his waist to curl tentatively over his arse and John moaned, tugging appreciatively at the tangled hair. He grinned when he heard a soft groan in reply, swirling his tongue over Shelock's before pulling back. They both panted white puffs as they stared at each other.  
  
Sherlock licked his lips, slowly, and John nearly melted. "…I'm warmer, but still cold."  
  
John broke into a round of nervous laughter, nodding and tugging them back inside. "Right, yeah, just- Yeah. Thank you, I've always…" He stared through the clear glass as he clicked the door shut, sighing happily at the dancing lights. "Always wanted to do that."  
  
"I'm not sure I follow."  
  
"Don't need to," John smiled, twining his fingers through Sherlock's. "I'm starving. Let's be completely decadent tossers and order room service, shall we?"  
  
Sherlock squeezed his hand. "If you want."  
  
"I want!"


	14. Learning With Sherlock (Chap 3)

John nearly fell over his feet when he saw the large silvered cart rolled into their room. Two levels worth loaded with trays of fruits, sandwiches, and two bundt cakes- it was enough food for a small gathering, and entirely too much for them two alone.  
  
Sherlock glared at the waiter until he left, then nudged one of the buckets of ice toward John. "They don't have your preferred champagne, but this should be similar. Ah. They had a _Château Pétrus._ "  
  
"Oh god, dare I ask what this costs?" John tilted the dark wine bottle to read the label. " _Pétrus,_ 1998\. Oh, a Merlot. Nice. Yes, I'll take the champagne." He lifted one of the sterling silver covers, gaping at the tiered tower of chocolate biscuits.  
  
"Nine hundred, give or take." Sherlock deftly upended both wine glasses. He had sunk the corkscrew in the wine bottle and wedged it out halfway before John's hand clamped over his.  
  
"Sorry- What'd you say?"  
  
Sherlock frowned, trying to shake off John's grip. "…Nine hundred pounds?"  
  
John drew a shallow breath, eyes wide with panic. "Please, _please_ tell me that's included with the room and your favours owed and all that."  
  
"Yes, I requested it specifically." Sherlock popped the cork with a defiant look. "Why?"  
  
"Okay," John breathed, eyes closed in relief. "I thought- I know you stay deliberately ignorant of our finances but surely you couldn't- Yes, well that's fine then. I mean, I think it's _stupid_ to pay so much for a bottle of wine, but as long as we're not actually paying for it…"  
  
Sherlock expertly flicked the top off the champagne, pouring a glass for John and the wine for himself. "You're entirely too preoccupied with money."   
  
"Oh, sorry. See, I like to eat," John grinned, loading a plate with the small triangular sandwiches. "I like to pay bills. I like to continue living in our flat. I like ordinary things such as clothes, heat and internet!"  
  
Sherlock snorted derisively, grabbing his glass and walking over to the sitting area, sinking gracefully into the plush sofa cushions.  
  
"Don't you turn your nose up like that. You like those chocolate biscuits I get on occasion. I can always get you to swallow a few of them with your tea."  
  
"They're… acceptable."  
  
John chuckled as he balanced the plate and glass, balancing a scone on the side before wandering over and collapsing beside him. "You're going to eat. There's plenty to choose from, even with your picky diet."  
  
"Not hungry." Sherlock sipped pointedly at his wine, then huffed when John grabbed it and set it on the table before them.  
  
"You barely ate lunch at the cafeteria," John scolded, setting the laden plate in Sherlock's lap and picking a sandwich for himself. "I won't tell you again."  
  
Sherlock glanced over his glass, eyes crinkling in a smile. "Good, it's tiresome to hear repeatedly."  
  
"You're impossible. That's the perfect word for you; impossible." John chewed thoughtfully, running down his mental list of ways to encourage Sherlock to eat. Several of them simply weren't options, as they weren't at home, but one caught his attention. "Say, can I-,"  
  
"You can ask me anything, John."  
  
John scowled, flicking his finger at the tip of Sherlock's ear. He grinned as he watched the taller man start. "It's a personal question."  
  
Sherlock leveled a long-suffering stare at him, and John nodded hastily.  
  
"Yes, well, just making sure." John took a few sips of his champagne, shivering once as it bubbled down his throat. "Could you tell me what happened with your overdose?"  
  
There was a brief hesitation before Sherlock nodded. "There's not much to tell that Mycroft didn't already."  
  
John shifted closer, smiling up at him. "Still. I'd rather hear it from you."  
  
"I had just recently moved into Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson's case had, in fact, been the last I'd seen before this dry spell. Three months of mind-numbing boredom. I'd fallen out of Molly's good graces after the first month, and by the third Mrs. Hudson was travelling to be with her sister who had fallen ill. Even the skull refused to engage in conversation after some time."  
  
John quirked an eyebrow, and Sherlock gave him a placid look before continuing.  
  
"To ease the incessant tedium, I bought a healthy amount of cocaine. It lasted most of the month, and all was well until I was reaching the end of it. I had already had my daily dose when I discovered how little I had left, and in a morose fit I decided to take the rest and finish it with a flourish. It was rather shortsighted of me. Lestrade came around that very evening with details of a juicy problem and found me on the floor. I don't remember much, but my symptoms were all within normal expectations; fever, illogical panic, rapid heart rate, and apparently I was in a fit of seizure. On the way to hospital they told me I stopped breathing for a full minute."  
  
John had clamped a hand over his mouth, sickened by the fatal description. "You- You nearly died," he whispered through his fingers. Sherlock nodded.  
  
"That's what Mycroft told me."  
  
"Oh god." John stood, unable to sit still, and paced shakily about the room. Sherlock eyed him intently as he drained his glass. A moment of silence stretched awkwardly before John rushed back over and grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, shaking him roughly.  
  
"And you had the nerve to do that _again_ a few nights ago?!" John seethed angrily. "How _could_ you, Sherlock? How could you be _that selfish?!_ "  
  
Sherlock tilted his head curiously. "I admit it's a guilty pleasure, but the dose I took recently hardly qualified as-,"  
  
"Hurting yourself like that doesn't just affect you anymore!" John fumed, leaning down so their noses nearly touched, glaring into the too-innocent eyes. "Like it or not, I am your friend, your closest friend, and you frightened me _so badly_ and-,"  
  
"I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice was a low whisper, barely heard over John's tirade.  
  
"Say that again," John snapped.  
  
"I spent that night thinking about this very subject," Sherlock replied quietly. His hands eased onto John's hips, guiding him to rest in his lap. "I was surprised to realize how dependent upon you I've become. It's a terrifying notion for me, and I struggled to accept it, but it is the truth. When I met with Lestrade recently over the murder-suicide, I had trouble concentrating. I expected you to be there, even if just to flood my ears with how brilliant I am."  
  
"…So that's why you suggested this?"  
  
"I clearly saw my- my _attachment_ for what it was," Sherlock said carefully.  
  
"And what is that?" John pressed, releasing the last bit of his anger in a huff.  
  
Sherlock shifted, settling John deeper into his lap. "My life would be infinitely tedious without you in it. There's no going back to the way things were before. Life before John had its useful moments, but it had no… meaning."  
  
John threw himself forward, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and hugging him close. There was so much he wanted to say, to admit; to tell Sherlock he felt exactly the same, that Sherlock was an inconsiderate wanker, that he'd not been so scared in his life as when he saw Sherlock's glazed, drugged eyes. That if Sherlock tried it again he'd choke him to death himself.  
  
Instead he just held on, face buried against the expensive shirt, fingers searching to cling even closer. A few seconds later he felt Sherlock's arms wrap around his back, and he figured Sherlock knew.


	15. Learning With Sherlock (Chap 4)

It took several moments before John even considered letting go; he was frightened by the _what ifs,_ relieved that Sherlock was unharmed, and awed that Sherlock allowed him of all people to be this close. Besides, Sherlock was warm and oddly comfortable, even with his bony angles and tight clothes; and Sherlock was still stroking his back with those impossibly long fingers, tracing unknown patterns down his spine, and that felt rather good.  
  
Finally John raised his head, tilting it back just enough to peep at one of Sherlock's eyes.  
  
"Sherlock…"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"You need to eat."  
  
"Oh, not this again _,_ " Sherlock sighed dramatically.  
  
"Now look, I'm exhausted," John chided, resting back in Sherlock's lap, his arms still lazily wound around his neck. "Barely slept last night- your fault, too, I was worried sick- and then I put in a full day at the clinic, and then I had to suffer Mycroft, and then I had to suffer your affected pyromania and- and I really don't know why I'm telling you all this, you already know."  
  
Sherlock chuckled softly, laying his head back against the cushion and staring at John through his lashes. "Yes, but I don't mind. Your voice is pleasant to listen to."  
  
"What's gotten into you? You're being all complimentary and nice _._ " John placed a hand over Sherlock's forehead. "Fever?"  
  
"I'm just stating the truth," Sherlock replied, looking puzzled. "I rarely verbalize what I think of you. Is it that important?"  
  
"Yes!" John frowned, poking his chest. "But stop changing the subject. You're going to eat; I don't care what it is."  
  
Sherlock blinked twice, then gripped John's hand and shoved the fingers in his mouth, biting lightly to keep them there.  
  
John stared.  
  
Sherlock stared back.  
  
Then they burst into laughter simultaneously, hugging as they shook with their giggles. It was a long moment before John was able to compose himself enough to talk.  
  
"What- What was _that?!_ Cannibal Sherlock, didn't see that one coming." John dissolved into a fit of laughter again.  
  
"I have to- _haha-_ steer clear of alcohol," Sherlock said sheepishly. "It reduces my ability to reason on a drastic scale. I… end up doing stuff like that."  
  
"Is that why you don't take wine at Christmas?" John shook his head, still laughing. "You should! I like this Sherlock, too."  
  
"Nonsense. I have no filters or walls when I drink. I keep wanting to say-," Sherlock's voice dipped into a conspiratorial whisper, " _-_ outrageous thoughts that pop in my head."  
  
"Such as?" John pressed eagerly. "Come on, thrill me."  
  
Sherlock was already shaking his head clumsily. "No, no. I don't know how to say them without you giving that polite grimace you make so often."  
  
"Oh come now." John linked his arms around Sherlock's neck again. "I'm tired and relaxed and very happy. You can't be worried about offending me, surely."  
  
A frown creased Sherlock's brow, and John's smile faltered. "John, when I make a decision I don't make it lightly. If it's to be done, it's done, and that's that." One hand reached up to slide affectionately down John's chest, nails catching in the sweater's ribbing. "I've made my choice; you haven't yet. Nor should you; this is a trial per-,"  
  
"Forget that trial rubbish," John interrupted in a mutter.  
  
" _No,_ " Sherlock replied stubbornly. "It's the best arrangement. For both of us. And if I said some of these things, I don't know if… if we could go back to how it was before."  
  
"I don't want it to go back to how it was before." John wiggled in his lap, shaping his legs to Sherlock's thighs possessively. "I don't know exactly where this rabbit-hole is going, but I'm damn well not climbing back out of it. I want this every night." He leaned forward, slanting his lips across Sherlock's in a quick kiss. " _That._ I want lots more of that, lots more of this side of you I didn't know existed, and all the joy and headache that comes with it."  
  
Sherlock shifted restlessly under him, dropping his gaze to the side. "Even so… It's not a good idea, John. Not right now."  
  
John pulled a hand back to grip the sharp chin, tilting Sherlock's eyes back up to meet his. "Please? I know I can tell you anything. It should be the same for you. I may enjoy complaining about you at times, but you must know I don't judge you. I never have. I don't like knowing you think you can't share something with me, no matter what it is, no matter if we're tipsy or not."  
  
"I have a vast and knowledgeable vocabulary, but with this I think it would sound too… blunt. I've no idea how to make it sound more appealing."  
  
"I _like_ how you speak," John replied mulishly. "That's never turned me off. Quite the opposite. Now tell me."  
  
They stared silently at each other, searching for the truth in the other's expression. When Sherlock finally spoke, it was in a hasty rush, as if the words might burn his tongue.  
  
"Iwanttopenetrateyou."  
  
John froze.  
  
"…In a sexual manner," Sherlock added helpfully.  
  
"Yes- Yes, I got that," John stuttered.  
  
Sherlock sighed, slumping into the cushions. "See? And now you're shocked, which will evolve into-,"  
  
"No, I just- Sherlock, listen." John bit his lip, glowering at his friend. "I'm not stupid, but there's times when I'm, er, slow to understand. I don't adapt so quickly to new ideas like you do. I need time to chew on them, so, ah. This is… good. Just be patient. Tell me another."  
  
"Another?" Sherlock's brows rose to hide in the curly hair. "But you've turned red."  
  
John gritted his teeth. "Yes, thank you; go on."  
  
Sherlock hesitated for a second, then gripped John's shoulders and brought him close, his lips pressed against John's ear as he spoke in a hoarse whisper.  
  
"I want to feel your skin sliding against mine as you rock under me. I want you dragging your nails across my back and wrapping your legs round my waist. I want to watch your face twist in pleasure as I stimulate your prostate with my prick. I want to number how many ways there are to make you shout my name. I want to know how much teasing you'll accept until you're _begging_ for it."  
  
"Ohfuck," John gasped, clinging desperately to Sherlock's neck. His eyes squeezed shut, burying his nose in the dark hair.  
  
"…Not good?"  
  
"A bit _too_ good," John panted, shivering when Sherlock snorted, his warm breath flowing over his skin and ruffling his hair. "I've never- That was- I- I dunno. I dunno what to say."  
  
"John?"  
  
John took a deep breath before he uncurled his arms, leaning back to nervously search out Sherlock's gaze. "Yeah?"  
  
"Don't let me drink wine again."  
  
John began laughing, shaking his head so sharply his vision swam. "Oh yes you are! Any chance I get I'll be pouring it down your throat now."  
  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed hatefully. "That's exactly the opposite of what I ask."  
  
"That's because- Because that was- Oh fuck it, I can't even talk after that, come here."   
  
Sherlock looked exceptionally pleased when John dove in for a kiss. It was getting easier, moulding their lips and tongues together that sparked a thrill of pleasure. Sherlock's hands fell heavily on John's hips, pulling him down to grind against him as John tugged urgently at the soft curls. John moaned first, pressing their chests together encouragingly, sucking on Sherlock's tongue until he earned a groan in return.   
  
When they finally pulled away, they were both panting.  
  
"We're going to be brilliant together," John grinned.  
  
"We already a- Oh." Sherlock's eyes sparkled with glee. "Yes, we will."  
  
"I'm not, ah-," John licked his lips nervously. "Not ready for any of that yet."  
  
"Frankly, neither am I." Sherlock smiled, a slow, sensual one that curled John's toes. "I should shower. Get up now, please."  
  
"Oh no." John pushed himself off and stood shakily, pointing down at Sherlock. "I'm taking the first shower. You're going to sit here and eat. At least two sandwiches. And I will know if you hide them instead."  
  
"But-,"  
  
John crossed his arms resolutely. "No more snogging until you eat."  
  
Sherlock's head tilted, his smile growing sly enough to set warning bells off in John's head. "So using the relationship, and all its advantages, as leverage is acceptable? Good to know."  
  
"What Pandora's Box have I opened now? Ugh."  
  
"Pandora? Box?"  
  
"Just _eat!_ "   John waved a hand in his face before walking off, though when he snuck a glance before turning the corner he saw half a sandwich already disappearing into Sherlock's mouth.


	16. Learning With Sherlock (Chap 5)

He had planned to take a moment to collect himself, but when John flipped on the bathroom light he was distracted by how large and showy it was, just like the other rooms. He spent a few moments picking through the fancy toiletries and exclaiming over the enormous shower and separate bath, feeling like a very misplaced boy in a king's castle.  
  
The shower looked complicated, with the ten or so showerheads and five different knobs to try, but he finally got it working and ramped up the temperature to a steamy hot. He was far past the help of a cold one, anyway. He shed his clothes and stepped in eagerly, sighing in relief as the warm water prickled his skin.  
  
A moment later he peeked down at himself, scowling when he noted his erection was still standing thick and proud. He shivered when Sherlock's confession slipped through his mind again and his dick twitched happily. John hadn't even quite understood all of it and Sherlock had made him hard as a rock.  
  
Sighing again in defeat, he palmed himself and pushed lightly down the shaft.  
  
 _Fact 6: Sherlock wants to have sex with me._  
  
John bit his lip, frowning as he squeezed the base and trailed his hand up in a torturously slow motion. No, that didn't sound quite right, even if it was true. Too clinical.  
  
 _Strike that. Fact 6: Sherlock apparently wants to bugger me in a variety of delightful ways._  
  
John let out a breath slowly, his empty hand sliding down his thigh and gripping it tightly. He wasn't sure what he thought of that; he had little to no knowledge of just how that would work, but Sherlock seemed confident it would. Very confident, judging by the way his voice had been so possessive _._  
  
A soft gasp of pleasure escaped him at the thought. Sherlock's voice was as beautiful a music as what he coaxed from his violin, and the way it had been so coarse and _raw_ in his ear-  
  
John pressed his back against the clear wall for support, thrusting shallowly into his firm grip. He wouldn't've cared if Sherlock was citing the Periodic Table as long as he spoke like that; though when he had understood what Sherlock was saying, the sensations had travelled right between his legs.  
  
 _Fact 6, sub a: If that's what he wants, I'm going to find a way to be completely ready for that._  
  
That notion sent a trickle of cold fear down his neck, but he pushed it away resolutely, squeezing his eyes shut. Time enough to worry about that later. Instead, he let his mind wander over the vivid imagery Sherlock had painted in his mind, his hand reflexively pumping faster over his slick shaft.  
  
Sherlock, naked in his bed. Sherlock pinning him down with hands and legs and mouth. Scratching at Sherlock's skin without realizing it, leaving red lines to marvel over later. The feel of Sherlock sliding against him, into him. Watching Sherlock writhe and cry out and come undone because of _him-_  
  
John bit back a groan as he came, nearly doubling over with the intensity. He shuddered through the waves of pleasure, breathing noisily through his mouth as he gradually calmed. Then he collapsed against the wall again, exhausted and spent and extremely satisfied.  
  
Finally he noticed the water was cooling, and he stepped forward to adjust it. He washed himself with the rigid, quick diligence the army had instilled in him and shut it all off before toweling himself down. He'd had the foresight to bring his overnight duffel in with him, and he slipped into a pair of pajamas before reaching for the door.  
  
He paused, his hand hovering just over the knob.  
  
…Had Sherlock done this as well? Had he even left the sofa before pleasuring himself? Did he have enough time?  
  
His stomach knotted at the possibilities of what he might find, bravely pulling the door open- then huffed in amusement at the lumpy bundle in the middle of the overly large bed. He set the duffel down and pulled back the covers, slowly easing onto the mattress.  
  
"Just get in already, I'm not asleep. But I am cold, and you're warm."  
  
John laughed softly as he settled under the blankets. "Not sure I can even find you. This bed's massive."  
  
The mattress dipped and shifted as Sherlock rolled over, searching hands wrapping around John's arms and waist as Sherlock settled against him.  
  
"I didn't know you got cold so easily," John said lazily. "Wish you'd said something before now."  
  
"It's a weakness. I'm not fond of those."  
  
John chuckled, turning just enough to wrap his arms around Sherlock and tug him closer. "I see. I won't tell anyone, then."  
  
"Good." Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, a sly smile curling his lips. "I ate."  
  
"Did you, now?" John pulled back to arch a brow at him. "Or did you toss the sandwiches out to feed the Thames?"  
  
"I ate all but one." Sherlock winkled his nose in disdain. "The grape and cream cheese did not smell appetizing."  
  
John smiled in relief, tightening his arms around Sherlock in a rough hug. "Thank you."  
  
Sherlock stared up at him expectantly, and John frowned curiously. "What're you thinking now?"  
  
"I have met the requirement you set forth for more snogging."  
  
"Oh. _Oh._ " John grinned as Sherlock shifted suddenly and pressed their mouths together. Their tongues met and twined sleepily around the other's, eliciting a soft, content moan from them both. When Sherlock pulled away, John burrowed closer and rested his forehead against Sherlock's chest.  
  
"Never going to get tired of that." John's grip on his back tightened. "Don't think you'll get bored of me, do you?"  
  
"Short answer is no."  
  
John waited patiently, but Sherlock was quiet. "What's the-,"  
  
"The long answer is thus; I know within two minutes all the relevant facts about someone I meet. I had thought the same with you, but… it's one of the rare times I was wrong _._ It's been an entire year and I'm still surprised at times by how you react, how you think, what you do and do not observe. I know your habits intimately, and yet there's times when I cannot predict what you will or won't do. The more I know about you, the less I know about you, and it frustrates me. I want to know it all."  
  
"But…" John frowned, smashing his cheek against Sherlock's chest. "If you know it all, you won't want me around anymore."  
  
"Rubbish. I'm slowly having to accept the fact that I won't ever know everything there is to know about you," Sherlock replied softly. "But I want to try."  
  
The fear released its tentative hold and John relaxed, his eyes drifting closed. "I want that, too. I want to see the real you, past the sharp words and brilliance and absent-mindedness."  
  
"That's a frightening prospect."  
  
John nestled closer at the hint of worry in Sherlock's voice. "That's what relationships are. They're wonderful and terrifying."  
  
"Hm. If you say so. Goodnight, John."  
  
"'Night, Sherlock."


	17. Exploring With Sherlock (Chap 1)

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible and John groaned softly as he peeled his eyes open. They felt dry and itchy, and he rubbed his face against the smooth skin without thinking. Sherlock's scent made him take a deep breath as he woke up further.  
  
They'd somehow drifted to the other side of the bed, Sherlock splayed on his stomach with one arm hanging over the side. His other was curled possessively around John's waist, who was pressed against his side, their legs hopelessly tangled.  
  
Once again the normalcy hit John like so many bricks, and he spent several moments lying there, entranced and amazed by the sound of Sherlock's breathing, by the stray hairs on his eyebrows and the curve of the pointed lips. Sherlock was still muttering occasionally, the low, smooth tone igniting pleasure across his skin.  
  
He could wake up to this every morning now if he wanted to.  
  
Unable to resist the temptation any longer, John shifted and kissed what skin he could reach. By the time he reached the warm lips, Sherlock was stirring, eyes fluttering open reluctantly. He briefly tasted the tip of Sherlock's tongue before pulling back.  
  
"Good morning, John."  
  
"Mm, yes it is," John agreed sleepily. "Rest well?"  
  
"Tolerably."  
  
John frowned. "Did I-?"  
  
"No, you slept peacefully." Sherlock stretched, momentarily burying his face into the pillow before collapsing again with a noisy sigh. "The comforter is filled with down."  
  
"…Yes, and? That's warm, isn't it?"  
  
"While I require the feel of a warm environment to sleep, down makes me too hot. Especially if I'm required to sleep in clothing." Sherlock yawned as he rolled over and sat up, rubbing his eyes lazily. "And I hadn't anticipated having a bed partner would also add considerable body heat, though logically that makes sense. Just never had reason to consider it before."   
  
"Were you uncomfortable? We could've turned down the heat, or dispensed with the blanket, I don't mind." John sat up as well, shoving the bundle of sheets away with his foot.  
  
"You were already asleep."  
  
"Well, wake me next time." John ran a hand down his sleeve. "You _are_ warm. I'm sorry, Sherlock. Next time do what you like. I can sleep anywhere, warm or cold."  
  
"I know, but it would've taken a lot of effort to detach you from my person anyway." Sherlock grinned proudly. "Pleased that I don't have to stick to my side of the bed anymore."  
  
"Same here. In fact, I think it should be a rule." John scratched his nose. "You know, few mornings ago I woke up to see you over there belly-flopped on the bed and I thought there was something wrong. I realise now the space just… wasn't needed."  
  
Sherlock gave him a slow, sleepy smile, and John shifted to press a quick kiss to his shoulder. He bit his lip as he leaned back, moving his legs again and realising his pants were unusually close. And tight.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
"I'm gonna, ah, nip in the loo, 'less you need it?" John asked, pushing himself to the opposite side of the bed and standing carefully.  
  
There was a second's silence before Sherlock replied. "You don't have to do that in there."  
  
"…What?" John half-turned, giving him a puzzled glance over his shoulder.  
  
Sherlock curled his feet under himself, looking up placidly. "You don't have to retreat behind a closed door to masturbate."  
  
John began choking, Sherlock's comment catching him mid-breath, and he sat back down hastily. Sherlock watched him with a mild worried frown until he quieted.  
  
"I realised I haven't told you I would enjoy watching you pleasure yourself."  
  
"Sherlock- Where did that come from?!" John's face was burning, barely able to wrest the words through his tightened throat.  
  
"Last night you touched yourself for fifteen minutes in the shower," Sherlock replied, looking confused. "And just now your erection was pressed against my thigh when we woke up. Would it help if I were nude? Visual stimulus can-,"  
  
"No! What? God, what- How did you kn- No, don't answer that." John drew a hand across his eyes, rubbing harder than necessary. "Wait." He peeped over his fingers cautiously. "You _want_ to watch?"  
  
Sherlock tilted his head, still perplexed by John's violent reaction. "Yes. I suppose I should've mentioned it last night, but we were both tired and you were overly concerned with stuffing me with sandwiches."  
  
"Why would you want to?" John muttered, hunching defensively.   
  
"Come, John," Sherlock scoffed, picking idly at the sheets. "I know you're not a morning person but you needn't be dense about this." His gaze dropped, off and to the right, and John felt a spark of guilt.  
  
"Sherlock, don't get the wrong idea," John said quietly, leaning over to place a hand on a bent knee. "I'm shocked because I- Well, I'm _me,_ see." He gestured at himself with a self-depreciating smile. "And you're _you,_ with your aristocratic cheekbones and clever eyes and perfect hair and- well, perfect everything _._ " John laughed nervously. "And I'm just- an army boy."  
  
Sherlock unfurled his legs and surged forward, rocking John back against the mattress and pinning his wrists at his side. The snapping eyes swaying above John looked furious, and his stomach twisted with a jolt of pleasure.  
  
"I've told you I am physically attracted to you," Sherlock nearly growled. "I'm allowing myself to touch you as much as I desire. Kissing you has become the next best thing since serial killers. _Serial killers,_ John! Must I keep proving my point?"  
  
John swallowed thickly, their positions entirely too reminiscent of his fantasies the night before. "I dunno what it is, I'm just- I feel a bit insecure around you sometimes? You're gorgeous _,_ Sherlock-,"  
  
"And you are the summation of everything that's ever appealed to me in another human being." Sherlock's mouth twitched in a quick smile. "Since you are the only person who ever has _,_ to begin with."  
  
"Are you serious?" John gaped indecently at him. "I mean, you're not really a- a-,"  
  
"A virgin? Yes." Sherlock frowned, shifting restlessly. "Though it's more accurate to specify I've never personally engaged in any manner of sexual intercourse. Problem?"  
  
"No, no; but cor _,_ Sherlock…" John traced the angular face with his fingertips. "It's painful, thinking of all the people who've missed out on you."  
  
"I admit, I've regretted the lost data, and I do mean it as pure data," Sherlock said crisply. "But I've never wanted someone that close. And now that I finally want someone, the data is mostly irrelevant. I just…" Sherlock huffed in amusement. "Just want you _._ "  
  
John fisted his hand in the dark curls, tugging roughly to bring their lips together. Sherlock's weight sank onto his chest, fueling the lustful sparks and starting a dull ache between his legs. He felt Sherlock's own hard length rubbing against his side and he grinned proudly against the demanding mouth.  
  
"I have another proposition," Sherlock gasped when he pulled up.  
  
"Another?" John teased, raking his nails down Sherlock's neck. He was rewarded with a delightful shudder.  
  
" _Mmmmm-_ I suggest I join you in the shower," Sherlock rumbled, leaning down to nip lightly at John's jawline. "Since neither of us plan on penetrative intercourse just yet, we should learn each other's bodies."  
  
John's head rolled to the side, panting when Sherlock took the invitation and nibbled down to his ear. "Yeah, right. Brilliant."   
  
" _Johnnn~_ " Sherlock's tongue left a wet trail down his throat. "Are you paying attention to what I just said?"  
  
"Yeah, now. Shower. Yes. Brilliant."  
  
"Are you just repeating yourself?"  
  
John shoved at him, torn between scowling and grinning. "Get in there, for chrissake's!"  
  
"If you insist."


	18. Exploring With Sherlock (Chap 2)

"Your clothes are gratuitously covered in buttons," Sherlock scowled.  
  
"Have you seen these impossibly tight shirts you wear?" John scoffed in return. His fingers felt large and clumsy as he popped them open, weaving around Sherlock's hands that were going at his own.  
  
Sherlock's fingers slowed, pausing to arch a brow down at him. "Must you always complain?"  
  
"Oh that's rich, coming from you _,_ " John sniggered. "Roll your shoulders back, think I got this undone."  
  
Sherlock briefly hesitated, just enough to make John growl impatiently. He abandoned his work at John's shirt to help wiggle out of his, tossing it at the floor carelessly. John sucked in a breath, his rough hands smoothing down the pale shoulders lovingly. He'd seen Sherlock nude from the waist up many times before- usually after a bath, or during the hottest summer month when they'd open the windows for the chance of a breeze, but he'd never been close like this. Close enough to run his fingers along the bony arch of the collarbone and linger in the dips the sinewy muscles formed.  
  
A harsh sound brought John back to Earth, and the _ping-ping-ping_ on the tiled floor made him start. Glancing down, he noted with dismay that Sherlock had impatiently ripped the last half of his shirt open, the buttons scattering to the far corners.  
  
"Wha- _Sherlock!_ "  
  
"It's a half-size too small for the breadth of your chest and the colour doesn't suit you," Sherlock replied slyly, stepping up to mould himself to John as he helped tug it down his arms to join his on the floor. "Besides, you should go shopping; all your clothes are at least three years old."  
  
"It was just a pair of pajamas anyway, not a suit. Who cares what colour it is?" John huffed, tilting his head to the side as Sherlock pressed urgent kisses to his exposed neck. "It's not like I can afford to be choosey."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I've already told you why, more times than I can count," John chuckled, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist and digging his fingertips into the small of his back. "I like to eat, pay the rent, take cabs, that sort of thing."  
  
"Money again." Sherlock sighed, leaning back so John could see him roll his eyes. "If you insist on being so dull about it, I'll see what I can do."  
  
"…What can you do?" Indignation flared. "Sherlock, if you've had some way of-,"  
  
"Later." Sherlock took a small step back, fumbling at the fastens in his trousers, and John quickly followed suit. Once again John's hands felt fat and foreign as he worked the knot in his waistband tie.  
  
_Oh god I'm going to see him, all of him, and he's gorgeous and I know he's hard, he's hard because of_ me-  
  
John froze as Sherlock shook himself out of his trousers, stepping out of them and flicking them away with an irritated wave of his foot. The slight indention of Sherlock's hips were a wonder to behold, and the way the faint dark line of curled hair trailed down the abdomen to frame the slender erection made him lick his lips anxiously.  
  
"Staring is greatly appreciated, but could you do it later?" Sherlock grinned. "I am not a patient man, John."  
  
"Ha, right, sorry." Most of the apprehension faded, replaced by a light giddiness that made John feel heady. His fingers had finally coaxed the tangled knot loose, and he let the pants drop to pool around his feet. The fascination that lit Sherlock's sweeping gaze had him biting his lower lip. He shivered when Sherlock reached up, running his hands down John's chest to rest on his waist.  
  
"You aren't self-conscious at all, are you?" John asked curiously.  
  
"About my body? No." Sherlock tilted his head, distracted by examining the jagged scar on John's shoulder. "Should I be?"  
  
John laughed at the thought. "God, no."  
  
"That's what I thought. Into the shower now, please. I'm-,"  
  
"Cold, yeah. I can tell." John pulled the clear door open and stepped inside, twiddling the knobs he'd learned last night. He braced himself for the rush of cool water before it began to warm.  
  
"How so?" Sherlock tested the water with a hand before following in and closing the door after him. He smiled again when John trailed wet fingers down his chest, flicking the pebbled nipple teasingly. "Oh, I see."  
  
They spent a few breathless seconds eying each other, all pretenses stripped as they traced skin and curves and angles with their gaze.  
  
Then there was a wet smack as they lunged forward, hands grabbing greedily as they slid together. Their mouths met, both moaning hungrily when Sherlock's tongue wrapped around John's. The water rained around them, cocooning them in their own warm bubble as they explored with fingers and teeth and tongue.  
  
Somehow John ended up pinned against the wall- not that he minded- with Sherlock pressed eagerly against him, his hips tilting in a slow grind that dragged their dicks together. John had just gathered enough presence of mind to ask something when a warm, lithe hand wrapped around his erection and his breath was stolen.  
  
"Is this what you did last night?" Sherlock whispered silkily in his ear before biting lightly at the lobe.  
  
John shuddered, grateful that both the wall and Sherlock were there to keep him upright.  He licked his lips, tasting Sherlock on them. "Y-Yeah."  
  
"Think about me?"  
  
John snorted, tilting his head back to grin up at Sherlock. "'Course I did." He gasped as Sherlock's thumb swirled lazily over the head before the firm grip tugged down his shaft. "Thought about what you said last night."  
  
"Last- Oh." Sherlock scowled immediately. "No more wine."  
  
John laughed, an unrestrained merry sound that echoed around them. "If you say so. You could- could get me to promise to just about anything if you keep doing that."  
  
Sherlock's frown melted into a smug smile. "This is one thing I do have experience with. Feel good?"  
  
"Too good. More _._ " John moaned as Sherlock immediately complied, rotating his hold as he increased the pace.  He snuck a hand down, trying to return the favour, but Sherlock nudged it away. "Sherlock-,"  
  
"In a moment. I'm busy attempting to pleasure you."  
  
"But-,"  
  
"I want to watch you." Sherlock leveled a quick no-nonsense glare at him, and John held up his hands passively. "I want to absorb every sound you make, every movement, the way the water slides down your body, the sight of you disappearing into my palm."  
  
"Yeah, okay," John gasped, nodding rapidly. "Just- Just remember, this won't be a one-time thing."  
  
Sherlock's hand slowed for a second as they grinned slyly at each other, like two guilty children sharing a secret. Then Sherlock's thumb swept over the wet slit and John's head slammed back against the glass, wresting a sharp groan from him.  
  
"Sherlock," John panted, "get- getting close."  
  
Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's neck, leaning his cheek into his shoulder, eyes glued to the sight below them. John buried his nose in the tangled damp hair.  
  
"John?"  
  
"Y-Yeah?"  
  
"You're thicker than I imagined. Mmm."  
  
It was getting harder to concentrate on the rumbling voice. "Wh-What?" He shivered when Sherlock squeezed the base of his erection. "Oh- Oh. Really? You thought about-? That's good then?"  
  
"Very good," Sherlock purred, settling heavily against him, his hips still moving to rub his own prick into John's waist. "I'm keen to feel you inside me."  
  
"What? I thought…" John shook his head lightly, spattering them with water. "I thought you w-wanted-,"  
  
"Yes, but _Johnnn~,_ " Sherlock tilted his head up, nibbling along John's jaw. "Wouldn't you like to thrust your delightfully thick, hard prick into my virginally tight arse?"  
  
" _Oh god._ " The visual sent John over the edge, jerking in Sherlock's hand as he shuddered through his release. Sherlock's grip slowed dramatically, squeezing gently through the last pulses. When John pried his eyes open- when had they closed?- he saw Sherlock staring down at him with such bare adoration his legs weakened.  
  
"Good?"  
  
John was about to laugh when he noted the slight furrow on Sherlock's brow. Instead, he curled his arms around his neck and brought him down for a long, searching kiss.  
  
"That was _amazing,_ Sherlock."  
  
The worry line disappeared as the overly smug smile returned. "I surmised as much from your reaction, but hearing it is reassuring. Your expression was fascinating."  
  
"Oh, don't tell me that," John grimaced playfully. "Then I'll be all worried I look like a proper idiot when I do that."  
  
"You don't. I was awed."  
  
He had looked awed, and John felt himself reddening. He pressed on Sherlock's shoulders, swapping their position and pushing Sherlock back into the wall. He wanted Sherlock to feel this, to feel how loved he felt at this moment.  
  
A thought occurred to him, and he chewed on his lip. "Sherlock. Do you trust me?"  
  
Sherlock's easy smile fell away, replaced by an _Are you serious?_ glare. John chuckled.  
  
"I know, I know. It's reassuring to hear, remember?"  
  
"I trust you implicitly," Sherlock replied promptly. "An odd question to ask when- John? What are you doing?"  
  
John slid down Sherlock's body, pressing wet kisses to the chest and stomach as he sank to carefully rest on his knees.  
  
"John-,"  
  
"Don't try to talk me out of it." John carefully wrapped a hand around the base of Sherlock's prick, fingers shifting to rub against the curled hair. He glanced up, smiling at the concerned frown.  
  
"Do you really- You don't- I mean-,"  
  
John's chest swelled with pride as he listened to Sherlock stutter- such a rare occurrence. "I wouldn't if I didn't really want to."  
  
"But I didn't-," Sherlock's hands fluttered in a wide gesture down at him. "It's not an even exchange, is it?"  
  
"What?" John blinked up at him. "What's that even mean?"  
  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I don't know!"  
  
"I rather like seeing you like this," John grinned, leaning in to rub the flushed pink head against his lips.  
  
"What, like a- _OhgodJohn._ " Sherlock's hands immediately tangled in his hair, one cradling the back of his neck encouragingly.  
  
John had no experience to draw upon, but he did know what felt good to him, and that gave him the confidence to slide the bobbing head past his lips, swirling his tongue underneath and around the side. Sherlock's nails scraped his scalp, his heavy gasp sounding over the patter of the shower.  
  
" _Yesss_ John," Sherlock hissed, breathing noisily through his mouth. "That's- Yes- Good."  
  
John glanced up, widening his jaw to suck in more of the length. Sherlock was slightly bent, his head dipped down and tilted to the side as he watched with half-hooded eyes. He paused for a second, then hummed happily, staring up to see Sherlock's reactive shiver as the vibrations travelled down his erection.  
  
" _Ohhh~_ That's- Oh."  
  
Listening to Sherlock reduced to single syllables was a giddy, addictive sensation. John closed his eyes, concentrating on finding how far he could take Sherlock in comfortably, making up for the woefully large gap with a firm grip. Slowly he began rocking back and forth, hollowing his cheeks to suck tightly, curling his tongue to rub over the slit before pushing back in, cupping his balls and squeezing gently.  
  
And Sherlock came undone around him, babbling unintelligible praises and moaning shamelessly, pawing at John's head as his hips thrust shallowly. John hummed in response, rewarding Sherlock for talking and moving against him and clawing his skin.  
  
John _loved_ it.  
  
Part of him was amazed at that fact, but his practical side saw this as a perfectly natural progression. John, who could honestly admit he still didn't think of himself as gay, was thrilled at the thought of Sherlock using his mouth as a fucktoy.  
  
He glanced up as he felt Sherlock tense, searching for the dreamy eyes swaying above him. As hard as it was to believe, Sherlock had never been touched like this, and John doubted he'd last much longer.  
  
_Come on, Sherlock._ He grinned wickedly before diving forward and suckling hard. _Show me._  
  
With an abrupt cry, Sherlock stiffened and moaned his name repeatedly. John's mouth flooded with his release and he swallowed reflexively. The intense taste caused him to pull back, turning his head to cough.  
  
A second later Sherlock collapsed beside him, his hands still wrapped around John's neck. John looked up, grinning and ready to toss a teasing question when he caught the look in Sherlock's stormy eyes. He looked so vulnerable and open _,_ and John's grin faded. He reached up and petted Sherlock's cheek affectionately.  
  
"You all right?"  
  
"Chemically I know the reaction my body is going through," Sherlock said quietly, staring at John in wide-eyed wonder. "But I was unprepared for how it feels. John- John I… don't know what to say."  
  
"That's a first," John murmured, leaning in for a gentle kiss.


	19. Exploring With Sherlock (Chap 3)

Interestingly enough, once they were both recovered Sherlock insisted on washing John. Not sure what to make of the command, John let Sherlock do as he pleased, and he had to admit it was very nice having Sherlock's hands run through his hair and over his body.   
  
But when he offered to return the gesture, Sherlock hesitated before nodding, which set John's mouth in a slight frown.  
  
"If you don't want me to, Sherlock, that's fine. Just felt so nice, I thought you'd like, too."  
  
"I'm sure it will be acceptable," Sherlock replied thoughtfully. "It's my hair, see."  
  
John glanced up, enjoying the way the wet curls clung to the pale skin. "Yes, I see it, right there. Atop your head."  
  
"I don't like anyone touching it," Sherlock clarified with a sniff. Somehow, Sherlock managed to pull off looking indignant even when stark naked and looking like a drowned rat. "I never have, and yet I distinctly remember your hands being in it several times now, and it felt wonderful _._ So go on."  
  
John tried to keep his laughter quiet as he worked the shampoo into Sherlock's scalp. "Does it help if I tell you I adore your hair? And will jump at the chance to touch it anytime you'll let me?"  
  
"Slightly." Sherlock sighed contentedly. "You're right, that does feel nice."  
  
John chuckled again, then fell silent as he soaped his hands and began spreading them down Sherlock's body. Methodically he worked his way over every inch of skin, looking up occasionally to find that same raw admiration shining on Sherlock's face. As he helped Sherlock rinse off, he pressed quick wet kisses to his back and shoulders.  
  
"I vote we wake up like this every day," John grinned as he turned the shower off.  
  
"No."  
  
"No?" John pouted immediately. "Why not?"  
  
"I vote we don't leave the bed tomorrow morning," Sherlock smirked, and John barked a laugh and agreed.  
  
They watched each other towel off with obvious greedy eyes before John began picking up the strewn clothes. He sighed as he wriggled into his pants and tied them off, following the trail of spilled buttons.  
  
"Sherlock, did you really have to- Sherlock?" He set the clothes on the sink and peered into the bedroom. Sherlock had tossed the shades open to let in the morning light and was drifting off toward the main room, still completely unclothed. John leaned against the doorframe, biting his lower lip.  
  
"Sherlock, this doesn't mean you can parade around naked all the time now."  
  
Sherlock paused long enough to toss a sly smile over his shoulder. "Why not? Do you object to the view?"  
  
John leveled a stare at his backside. "…Not really, no."  
  
"Then stop complaining, Doctor." Sherlock passed around the bed and out of sight.  
  
"Sherlock, your clothes!" John padded after him, the clothes folded over his arm.  
  
"I don't need them to call for tea."  
  
"Actually…" John tossed the clothes at Sherlock's face before collapsing into a chair. "Skip the tea. I want to go out for breakfast."  
  
Sherlock arched a brow at him, but obediently began slipping into his boxers. "You? Wanting to be out in public before you've had your morning cuppa? Are you feeling well?"  
  
"Extremely well, thanks to you," John smiled, and Sherlock huffed in agreement. "I'm too excited to wait for tea. I'm too excited to just sit! We're going out."  
  
"Fine." Sherlock drawled the word slowly, sounding thoroughly bored as he shrugged on his shirt.   
  
John grinned and bolted for the bedroom, changing into his spare set of clothes. As he passed by the bed again, he heard a small _blip_ and plucked his mobile from the bedside table.  
  
 _I took the liberty of clearing your flat of extraneous devices last evening. Enjoy the Corinthia's raspberry scones. Remember your promise, and good luck fulfilling it. –MH_  
  
"You know, if I asked anybody who knew you and your brother," John said musingly as he reentered the room, "I'm sure they'd peg Mycroft as the more palatable one. Manners, poise, and all that. But he irritates me to no end."  
  
"And we are of one accord," Sherlock stated firmly as he drew his coat dramatically about his shoulders. "What warrants that comment, though? Is his text as exasperating as the man himself?"  
  
"Has to let me know that _he_ knows exactly where we are at any given time," John snapped, closing his phone and pocketing it. "Even extending a nice gesture, he has to slide in a smug little reminder."  
  
"What nice gesture? Also, lead on; I can't guess where your excitable stomach will take us." Sherlock opened the door, hooking the plastic _Do Not Disturb_ sign to the outside handle.  
  
"He's- Well, I'm sure you know this, but he's had our flat bugged," John said with gritted teeth as they paced down the hallway.  
  
"Oh, that." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively before punching a button for the lift. "I'm sure he told you he's done that since my mishap five years ago. I go through the flat on a bi-weekly basis and trash the ones I find. It takes him roughly two weeks to replace them. Which is interesting," Sherlock added with a mischievous grin. "It used to only take four to six days to replace them. With you around it's more difficult, apparently."  
  
"Well, he's swept them out and won't have them up any longer," John replied vehemently. "I know his reasoning for having them there, but _really._ I've been watching out for you for a year now."  
  
"Agreed. He could've dispensed with this as soon as you entered the scene, but Mycroft's like a bulldog."  
  
"Oh?" They exited the lift, and the prim woman from last night greeted them with a cheery hello. Both ignored her.  
  
"Yes." Sherlock nodded gravely. "Just like a bulldog. Disgustingly ugly, lazy brute who won't relinquish a bone."  
  
They burst into laughter together, swaying to lean on each other for support as they shoved through the clear doors.  
  
"So… Last evening he fetches you to tell you this? This way; café's this way if you're up for it. Or there's a questionable string of diners to the other side."  
  
John nodded, threading his arm through Sherlock's and holding him flush against his side. "He said his delicate sensibilities couldn't take the abuse of watching us snogging on a regular basis."  
  
"Ha! Wish I'd thought of that earlier," Sherlock said merrily. "I'd have kissed you months ago."  
  
"I would've slapped you."  
  
"I would've enjoyed it."  
  
They dissolved into chuckles again, which ended only when John pressed up on his toes to kiss Sherlock's jaw. Then he squeezed Sherlock's arm, nestling his face into the warm dark coat. "This is what I really wanted."  
  
Sherlock arched a brow at him, eyes sparkling with humour. "A walk?"  
  
"No, this _._ " He smiled up at Sherlock contentedly. "What ordinary people do. I want to hang onto you like I own you and show you off a bit and steal kisses and have breakfast with my- my-," He paused, frowning. "I'm stuck on that, actually. What to call you."  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"No!" John laughed again, smacking at Sherlock's middle. "'Boyfriend' sounds so juvenile. 'Partner' sounds so- I dunno, detached. Professional _._ What do you think of me as?"  
  
"One moment. In here." Sherlock tugged on his arm, ducking into a brightly lit doorway. The café was small and quaint, with traditional red and white checkered cloths and wooden chairs. Sherlock sat at one of the tables by the window and slid one of the menus at John. "As I've said before, you defy any restrictive labels. You're my John. It's how I've always thought of you."  
  
"Always?" John ignored the menu in favour of smiling across the table.  
  
"Close enough." Sherlock shrugged. "When I noted you standing by the police car the night you shot the cabbie- affecting an entirely too innocent posture, by the way, you should work on your poker face- it was-," He paused, the silvered eyes narrowing in intensity. "Well. From that moment, yes, you've been _my_ John."  
  
"I think it was the moments just before that, for me," John said quietly, reaching over and twining his fingers through Sherlock's. "The sheer panic when I saw you, knew I'd picked the wrong building. And then the thought that you might actually swallow that blasted pill and be gone just when I'd found you. You idiot."   
  
"For the _last time,_ I wasn't going to-,"  
  
"I don't believe you," John said primly, picking up his menu and shaking it out. "And we've gone several rounds with that argument so let it be. What are you having?"  
  
"Just tea for me."  
  
John lowered the menu slightly to glare over it. Sherlock sighed, fidgeted with John's glove for approximately twenty seconds, then muttered under his breath and unfolded his menu to scan it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references the BBC Episode 'A Study In Pink'


	20. Exploring With Sherlock (Chap 4)

Once Sherlock had resigned himself to eating, John was pleased to see he ordered a sizable amount of food and was methodically packing it away as they talked and laughed. For all the times over the past year Sherlock had gotten him going in the mornings, it was nice to feel he'd returned the gesture.  
  
They were nearly finished and pondering whether to pocket the biscuits for later when there was a stumble and gasp behind John. Sherlock was already glaring at the interruption but hadn't moved otherwise, so John remained still. It still bothered him when people snuck up behind him. Made him twitchy.  
  
"Oh my gawd."  
  
John half-turned, looking up at two young'ish women who had stopped by their table. The taller brunette had covered her mouth, while the other was staring with wide eyes past her thick curled hair. The taller one spoke again, muffled through her fingers.  
  
" _You're Doctor Watson!_ "  
  
John gave a polite smile, the thick American accent pricking at his ears. "Yes? Sorry, do I know you?"  
  
"No- No, you wouldn't, we read your blog, and the papers," the girl gushed. She nudged her shorter companion, who started slightly. "I'm Samantha- Sam- and this is Mira. I _told_ you we'd see somebody famous!"  
  
"You said we'd see a movie star," Mira said, rolling her eyes.  
  
"But he is on TV! Oh- I'm so sorry." The taller girl bit her lip anxiously. "We- I didn't mean to bother you during a meal."  
  
John spared a quick glance at Sherlock, who was still looking them over, presumably gleaning information about them. "Quite all right," John said affably. "Felt the same way when I got on the tube next to Michael Caine few months ago."  
  
"Who's that?" Sherlock piped up, arching a brow. John shook his head with a laugh.  
  
"Oh, you wouldn't know him, would you?" Samantha giggled. "You don't know stuff like that- I mean-,"  
  
Sherlock glared, and John reached over to squeeze his hand warningly. Sherlock tugged it away and gave them all a withering stare.  
  
"I know you've both been in London for less than a week. Ms. Mira has a cat and two dogs, and types habitually most evenings. You're recovering from a long period of inactivity- perhaps illness-, are much more nervous than you're letting on and-," Sherlock tilted his head slightly, pausing for effect, "-you're both romantically involved."  
  
"Yes." Samantha wrapped an arm possessively around her friend, who peeked up shyly. "She's my fiancée, in fact."  
  
"Sorry, he does that," John said, waving a hand at Sherlock. "Nothing personal."  
  
"We, um, we saw the papers last week," Mira said quietly. "Are you two, uhm…"  
  
"Together?" Samantha prompted happily.  
  
John was just opening his mouth to reply when Sherlock gripped his hand and nearly growled, "Yes, we are."  
  
"Oh!" Both girls grinned like idiots. "Can we take a picture with you? Then we'll go, I'm sorry!"  
  
Sherlock managed to look not quite as grimly defensive as a waiter nearby was snagged to take a photo of them all together. As promised, the girls thanked them several times before rushing out of the café, giggling to themselves.  
  
"Told you," John said as they sat down again. "You read the papers but don't really read the papers, do you? You've got fans."  
  
Sherlock arched a brow at him. "So do you, apparently."  
  
John chuckled, rolling his eyes. "I hope that doesn't start happening regularly. I just want a day out with you."  
  
"All day?" Sherlock tapped the table thoughtfully. "'A day out'? Do what ordinary people do?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"We've never been on an outing just for the sake of the outing." Sherlock leaned forward, tugging John's jacket open and stuffing the last of the scones in his inner pocket. "Walk in the park, sight-seeing, museums. That sort of touristy tripe that people seem to enjoy. Would you enjoy it?"  
  
John's grin was immediate. "Yes! That's a lovely idea. You'd stoop down to the average person's level just to totter about town with me?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged, immediately affecting a bored expression. "If you insist."  
  
"Tosser." John put the payment on the table and stood, yanking Sherlock to his feet. "I'll make sure you enjoy it."  
  
Sherlock drew John's arm around his as they ducked out the café. "Suddenly, I'm more interested."  
  
It was, in fact, one of the most interesting and relaxing days they'd spent together. They walked for several hours at the park nearby, where they rested by a small lake and stole kisses and John listened in fascination as Sherlock gave a complete history of the common pigeon. John had to chase his friend through a bookstore as Sherlock complained loudly that all the religious texts were in the non-fiction section and wasn't it utterly _ridiculous?_ He had to smile and make excuses for Sherlock attempting to correct the signs and boards in the Imperial China exhibit at the British Museum. Sherlock even talked John into stopping by at Bart's to pick over the daily round of freshly dead bodies. John made Molly and himself coffee as they watched Sherlock examine and exclaim and make notes.  
  
By the time they went back to the hotel and collapsed on the balcony, the watery sun was setting over the Thames, giving a hazy glow to the city spread below them. The chill was intensifying, but Sherlock had dragged the down comforter out and curled against John underneath it. They stayed like that until the sun completely disappeared, hands roaming over and under clothing, safely cocooned in the warmth.  
  
"John?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"Today was completely devoid of anything I've come to expect and enforce in my life, and yet it was stimulating. "  
  
"What?" John shook his head, laughing. "Such as?"  
  
"A disorienting and extremely enjoyable round of fellatio, a rather pathetic pot of tea and biscuits at a dinky café, and visiting all the mundane shops you could think of on the spot. I should've been mostly bored out of my skull, and yet I wasn't because you were there."  
  
"You'd better watch it," John chuckled. "All this flattery, it's going to swell my head."  
  
Sherlock grinned, eyes flashing in the low light. "The upstairs or downstairs one?"  
  
John laughed again, surging forward to press an urgent line of kisses along Sherlock's neck. He'd just earned a moan when his mobile beeped, and regretfully he leaned back to pull it up. Lestrade's name flashed on the screen before showing the message.  
  
 _where are you two?? Sherlock hasnt texted me back. your flat smells horrible! needed at crime scene. 57 Lombard Road if you can. Anderson not here, lucky day. also need you two to be professional ok?_  
  
"The perfect end to a perfect day!" Sherlock threw the blanket off and yanked John to his feet. "Quickly!"  
  
"'Professional'?" John tilted his head as he let himself be dragged toward the door. "What's that mean?"  
  
"Who cares?"  
  
"Sherlock, did you do something the other-?"  
  
" _Hurry!_ "


	21. Exploring With Sherlock (Chap 5)

It was a relatively short ride to the address, and Lestrade hurried out to meet them as they exited the cab. Sherlock brushed past him with a cursory wave and ducked inside the long, low warehouse. John thrust his hands in his pockets and followed more slowly, in step beside the inspector.  
  
"So what's this?" John asked, peering up at the webby iron beams overhead. "Nice place for a murder, I suppose."  
  
"It's the second one that we've found like this." Lestrade gestured toward a thick slab that had been moved, presumably to cover the dark pit next to it. Sherlock was already kneeling beside it, shining a flashlight inside. "The first one was odd enough, but this one… He doesn't listen to me before he does his thing anymore, does he?"  
  
John grinned and shook his head. "Not really; doesn't like to be prejudiced before finding what facts he can."  
  
Lestrade shrugged with a rueful smile. "He used to listen to me sometimes _._ At least, before you came along."  
  
"Now he expects me to listen to you for him."  
  
"Yeah, 'bout right."  
  
John paused, sneaking a glance at Sherlock, who was leaning so far down his arse was up higher than his head, and even covered by the long coat John could see with his mind's eye what was hidden beneath. "Say, Greg, I've a question."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
John tapped his mobile in his pocket thoughtfully. "What was the 'professional' comment about? Didn't quite get that. Did Sherlock do something when I wasn't here few days ago?"  
  
"Oh." Lestrade shrugged grandly. "Look, I don't care- I probably saw it coming before you two did. But Sherlock's got a lot of strikes against him in the force and I just don't want you two giving them any ammunition."  
  
John frowned. "I don't follow. Saw what coming? What ammunition? Oh god, what did he _do?_ "  
  
Lestrade froze, giving him a slightly panicked look. "You didn't see the evening paper?"  
  
A small trickle of fear crept down John's neck. "What? No, been out all day. Why?"  
  
"Come here." Lestrade glanced over at Sherlock- who was now fully in the pit and muttering to himself- and led John back outside to his car. He pulled a rolled paper from the passenger's side and handed it over.  
  
John shook it out with some trepidation, tilted it toward the streetlamp, and gasped. Half of the underside was a large black and white photo of them, he and Sherlock, caught mid-kiss walking toward the camera's view. The headline read in large, glossy black letters **Hat-Man and Robin Romance: Scandalous Rumours Confirmed!**  
  
" _Oh god._ "  
  
Lestrade arched a brow at him, looking faintly amused. "If you were trying to be discrete about it, you failed. Spectacularly."  
  
"Not- Not really, I just- I should've known _,_ " John scowled, scanning the article and not surprised to see a secondary, smaller photo of the one the two girls had taken. He marched back into the building, Lestrade following with an indecent grin. "Sherlock! _Sherlock!_ "  
  
The dark curls poked over the edge as John kneeled down. "Asphyxiation; the scraping from the nails is deep- must've been excruciatingly painful. The letterhead on this burnt paper is…" The hyper voice trailed off as Sherlock swiveled the flashlight beam up to the paper John was shoving at him. "Oh."  
  
Silence for a few seconds as they stared at each other, then Sherlock continued. "Problem?"  
  
"Yes! I mean- I don't know," John fumed, kicking his legs out from under him and sitting on the side of the hole.  
  
Sherlock frowned, shimmying up to rest beside him, his eyes dark and unreadable. "John. Is there a problem?"  
  
John swiped a hand over his eyes irritably. "I think so, don't you?!"  
  
"I asked you _,_ " Sherlock nearly snapped, "and I need an answer one way or the other."  
  
"Yes _,_ I'm upset about it then!"  
  
"Lads, ah…" Lestrade dared to take a step closer, but neither registered his presence.  
  
"You're the one who suggested a day out," Sherlock returned hotly. "You're the one who wanted to do what ordinary people do. I took your suggestions at face value."  
  
"We both decided on a day out," John replied quieter, confused by the sudden flash of anger. "But that's not the point here."  
  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Isn't it?"  
  
"Guys?" Lestrade said more loudly.  
  
"No! Sherlock, what's gotten into you?" John reached over, smoothing a hand down Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock tensed as he sucked in a quick breath.  
  
"You're ashamed _._ Embarrassed."  
  
The panic John had felt a moment ago flared to life. He lunged forward, gripping both shoulders and shaking Sherlock roughly.  
  
" _No,_ you stupid git! I'm bloody pissed that I- we had no say in this." John flapped the paper in front of his face. "No control over when and where and all that. I'm not ashamed of anything. Not of you. Us _._ "  
  
The tension fled Sherlock's body so quickly he slumped in John's supporting hands, and John huffed in relief.  
  
"You're an idiot _,_ Sherlock."

"I am not," Sherlock scowled. "Considering your homophobic comments in the past, I believe that was a perfectly natural conclusion to draw-,"

" _Hello?_ " Lestrade waved his arms in exasperation. "Am I invisible now?"  
  
Sherlock shot the inspector a curt glare. "Sod off, Lestrade."  
  
" _Sherlock!_ I'm sorry, Greg." John sighed, rubbing his eyes again before pushing himself to stand. Sherlock quickly followed, staring defiantly as he wrapped an arm around John's waist and tugged him close.  
  
"This is what I meant by professional," Lestrade said, crossing his arms in his familiar _Get on with it_ pose. "I have enough trouble with you two already without having domestics around my crew. Concentrate on one problem at a time."  
  
John nodded. "I'm really sor-,"  
  
"I'm not," Sherlock interrupted coolly. "This is a regular part of our lives now. It doesn't come with an off switch."  
  
"I wish you did," Lestrade grumbled, rolling his eyes. "Look, just tone it down at least? I've got enough to worry about without you bickering over who left the hair in the sink and-,"  
  
John grinned. "-And who left thumbs in the ice tray, and who stores arsenic in the biscuit tin, and-,"  
  
"Oh god, I don't want to know _,_ that's the point!" Lestrade held out a hand, shaking his head as he laughed. "Look, can you help? This is the second one we've found like this and-,"  
  
"This is your original murderer." Sherlock jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the pit. "He left his accomplice as the original victim, but his new friend outsmarted him. I need to see the other crime scene, text me the address. I'll send you the results by morning. Come along, John."  
  
"But-," Lestrade frowned as Sherlock darted forward and past. "Details _,_ Sherlock, I need something to-,"  
  
"Details by morning," Sherlock retorted sharply. "No time to waste. _Come along, John._ "  
  
John shrugged helplessly as he trotted after. "I'll make sure he sticks by his promise."  
  
"You'd better!" Lestrade ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I've got to file a report by-,"  
  
"Morning, yes!" Sherlock called over his shoulder, slowing just enough to grab John's hand and yank them out the door.


	22. Exploring With Sherlock (Chap 6)

Sherlock was completely silent on the way to the secondary crime scene, and John knew the furrowed glare meant for him to be as well. He dutifully took notes as Sherlock muttered and exclaimed once they were inside the abandoned house's cellar, thoroughly confused but comforted by the familiar intelligent babbling; though Sherlock returned to his quiet musing once they left.  
  
Back at the hotel Sherlock curled on one end of the sofa, staring unseeingly at the wall, mouth still firmly set closed. He was assimilating facts- mentally retreated for the rest of the evening, John guessed. He busied himself with a quick shower, taking enough time to relive that morning in his mind, then had tea brought up to the room. Stretching out next to Sherlock with a warm cuppa in hand, he flipped on the telly and spent a pleasant hour channel surfing.  
  
Quarter to midnight John started yawning, hiding them in Sherlock's shoulder and earning a rare acknowledgement of a tilt in Sherlock's head. Ten minutes later John decided to sleep while he could; there was no telling when something would spark and Sherlock would shake him awake and drag them off somewhere.  
  
Lazily he tidied the tea tray and left it just outside their door. He padded toward the bedroom, then paused when he reached the doorway, turning to look his friend over. Sherlock hadn't moved, feet and legs still folded under him, hands resting lightly on his knees, the _tap-tap-tap_ of his fingers the only indication he was not a statue.  
  
Normally John would toss a quick goodnight over his shoulder and let Sherlock be, but 'normal' had changed recently. John dared to walk back over, gently brushing the thick glossy curls off his forehead and pressing a light kiss there. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, but remained still; John took the invitation to sweep his fingers through his hair a few times, carefully flicking apart a few tangles.  
  
"'Night, Sherlock." John smiled down fondly before straightening, another yawn escaping. He stumbled into the adjoining room and collapsed in the bed, burying his face in Sherlock's pillow and breathing deeply. A moment later he'd already drifted to sleep.  
  
It seemed like only a short time later John was stirred awake, long arms wrapping around his middle and holding tightly.  
  
"Got something?" John slurred, blinking rapidly to clear his fuzzy vision. He paused when Sherlock nestled his head into the curve of his shoulder, nosing the jagged scar absently.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Tell Lestrade? Do I need to-,"  
  
"Oh, _that._ Texted him a few hours ago with the relevant information. John…" Sherlock shifted restlessly and John curled an arm around his back to hold him close.  
  
"Hm, what? Sherlock, you okay?"  
  
"I think I should tell you something."  
  
John released a slow breath, unsure of what to make of the strange whisper. "Alright. Tell me."  
  
"Last evening I made a mistake."  
  
"What?" John frowned, turning to tilt Sherlock's troubled face up to his, barely visible in the low light. "You? You putting me on?"  
  
"I arrived at a decision without assimilating all the facts first," Sherlock replied anxiously. "When I saw your furious expression coupled with the identifiable photo, I immediately leapt to the conclusion that you were ashamed of me."  
  
John shook his head, smiling indulgently. "That was a logical assumption. You reminded me I've made it obnoxiously clear in the past that I'm-,"  
  
"No, you don't understand!" Sherlock detached himself and sat up, hands fluttering nervously. John pushed himself up as well, arm still wrapped around his shoulders. "I blatantly ignored my proven method because I- I was-," He paused, shuddering once, his voice dropping to a whisper again. "I was afraid _._ "  
  
John nodded, his mind drifting back to another, similar conversation. Hopefully this one wouldn't end as badly. "Sherlock, listen very carefully to what I'm about to say."  
  
Sherlock nodded, eyes darting up to lock with John's.  
  
"You're brilliant, a true genius. But that makes you short-sighted to some things, especially if you haven't experienced it yourself. This is all fine _,_ Sherlock." He tugged Sherlock closer, leaning his head against his shoulder. "Let me put it this way. Feeling scared is within a perfectly acceptable set of parameters for a relationship."  
  
"It is?" Sherlock frowned, immediately confused. "Isn't that counter-productive?"  
  
"Not really. It's just a part of it. It's expected. It's…" John lowered his tone conspiratorially. " _…_ normal _._ "  
  
"You're scared, then?" Sherlock sat back, eyeing him carefully. "What of? Tell me, so I can set it straight."  
  
"It's not that easy," John chuckled. "Some are my own insecurities. Some just kinda pop up, like with the paper."  
  
Sherlock was silent for a moment, picking at the tie in John's pants absently before blurting, "It's so illogical _._ You've proven in a variety of circumstances recently that you both accept and return my desire for a relationship. You even want to dispense with the trial period- which I still don't approve of, by the way. Why _,_ at the first opportunity to misconstrue something, do I?"  
  
John shrugged patiently. "It just happens. Point is, you told me why you were scared so I could explain what I was really upset about, and that fixed it. Right?"  
  
"Not until this moment."  
  
"Well, we're talking right this moment." John ruffled the dark hair affectionately. "And you're in bed with me. Score for John Watson on two accounts, my night is made."  
  
"It's morning." Sherlock gestured lazily at the shades pulled tightly over the windows; weak light broke in small streams around the edges.  
  
"Whatever." John sighed, resting his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm happy. Now, are you tired? You were up all night, I presume."  
  
"Yes, I-,"  
  
A sharp trill interrupted them, and John groaned as he laid back and reached for his mobile. He was fully prepared to toss a playful tirade at the good inspector when a different name flashed on the screen, and a curl of dread coiled in his stomach. Sherlock collapsed beside him, sensitive to his mood shift and mirroring his frown.  
  
John shared a pained look with him before answering. "…Hiya, Harry."


	23. Experimenting With Sherlock (Chap 1)

"Why _hellooo,_ brother of mine."  
  
John cringed at the sarcastically cheery voice, one hand running nervously through Sherlock's hair. "Yes, hullo Harry. What's going on?"  
  
"Oh, you should've _seen_ what the morning post brought me," Harriet replied gleefully. "Now I know why you haven't called about Christmas yet. Been too busy buggering your flatmate."  
  
Old pain flared, the kind that festered in the subconscious for years. "If you just called to-!" John began hotly, but Harriet cut him off.  
  
"Well, funny thing about my paper. It's in this envelope, see." John frowned as a loud whump sounded over the line. "And that was me dropping the envelope in the post."  
  
The knot of fear tightened in John's stomach. "So?"  
  
"Posted to mum."  
  
" _What?!_ " John sat up so quickly he nearly toppled over. He scrambled out of the bed, pacing into the main room and back again. Sherlock watched with a deep frown but remained on the bed. " _Shit!_ Why- What the hell d'you do that for?!"  
  
"Insurance, Jonny." Harriet's lilting voice turned sharp. "You didn't come last Christmas. It was torture, bloody _torture._ And I haven't heard from you and Christmas is next week and-,"  
  
"Fucking hell Harry." John paused, every muscle tensed and ready to spring. "You know I don't miss the dinner unless absolutely necessary!"  
  
"And you didn't explain last year," Harriet sneered. "You're n-not abandoning me again, Jonny. I can't take it."  
  
"I wasn't going to!" John nearly yelled, free arm pinwheeling angrily. "God, Harry, I knew you were a conniving bitch but this trumps it all. Goddamn."  
  
"I'm s-sorry, Jonny." Her voice softened. "But I couldn't risk it."  
  
Sherlock captured John's flailing hand and gripped it lightly; John tossed him a humourless smile before continuing. "You're drunk, Harry."  
  
"A- A bit, yeah. Jonny, I… I'm so sorry. I just wanted you to be here. I can't do it alone, I can't. Not again."  
  
John sank on the bed, some of the fear easing as Sherlock shifted to sit behind him, his legs straddling John's thighs. "I'll text you when I'll be there. You'll pick me up, yeah? Like usual? Or should I ring cousin George?"  
  
"I'll get you. You still don't know how to drive?" Harriet tittered softly. "Johnny, you're closing in on forty _._ "  
  
John clenched his jaw, closing his eyes and releasing a slow breath. "Nor do I need to. Later, Harry."  
  
"…Johnny, I'm-,"  
  
" _Don't,_ " John snapped.  
  
"…s-sorry." The mobile clicked, signaling the end of the call.  
  
A second later, John reared his arm back and tossed his mobile as hard as he could, flinging it into the air and well into the next room. Then he buried his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes so hard stars pricked in the darkness. Sherlock's hands wandered up his back, the clever fingers sweeping over his shoulders in a light massage. John sighed appreciatively, letting his arms drop to his lap and hanging his head dejectedly.  
  
They stayed like that for nearly a half hour, Sherlock nestled against his back, hands roaming over the knotted muscles along John's spine. When Sherlock finally spoke, his voice was low and even.  
  
"Must you go?"  
  
"Yeah," John replied bitterly. "We got a pact, Harry and me. Go to see the parents every year at Christmas together, so they can't focus on tearing just one of us apart. When one of us can't come it's… It's rough. Worse for Harry usually, what with her coming out to them when she was still a teenager and the drinking and odd jobs. 'Least I'm somewhat acceptable, so I catch less flak, so I do what I can to keep them distracted off her."  
  
Sherlock's grip on his waist tightened. "'Somewhat' acceptable?"  
  
"Yeah." John waved a hand listlessly. "Never been engaged and don't have a wife. No kids in sight, either. Never had a job they wanted me to have, don't wear the right clothes, don't live where they want. On and on it goes."  
  
"John, you're thirty-seven."  
  
"I know. Doesn't change the fact that-,"  
  
"Your mother's emotionally and mentally abusive."  
  
John sucked in a quick breath. "I… think so. It got much easier once I was accepted into the Army, but worse on Harry- she was still living at home for nearly a year when I joined up. And it's easier now, living far enough away I can't nip up to see them on a whim- or vice versa. As long as I show up at Christmas, I've done my family duty for the year and I'm left alone."  
  
"Can you not estrange yourself from them?"  
  
John grimaced, shrugging. "I could, but Harry wouldn't, and I can't- Harry and me don't get along well, I've told you that, but doesn't mean I don't fret to death over her."  
  
"Why didn't you go last year?"  
  
John bit his lower lip, wondering how exactly to phrase his answer. "You weren't well. I was worried. Mycroft had mentioned your drug habits to me and- Well, we were all worried."  
  
Sherlock snorted derisively, then frowned when John pushed him away.  
  
"You completely changed for a solid month and I was going bonkers having to just watch you do whatever it was you were doing. So don't dismiss it like that; I was _very_ worried."  
  
"She was clever," Sherlock said flatly. "She found buttons I didn't realise I possessed and pushed them."  
  
"I know."  
  
"John?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
Sherlock slid around him and off the bed, turning to press John's knees apart slightly and kneel between them. The thin hands crept up to rest lightly on his thighs. John opened his mouth to question, but snapped it shut when he caught Sherlock's intense stare.  
  
"John, I will go with you."  
  
It took him a moment to understand what Sherlock was saying; he shook his head, waving his hands frantically. "Oh no, no. No, Sherlock, you _really_ shouldn't come to the dinner. No, not a good idea at all."  
  
"I can more than handle myself."  
  
John barked a laugh. "Don't I know it! But I don't…" He sighed, running a hand over his eyes tiredly. "I don't want to subject you to my mum's presence. It's not pleasant, to say the least."  
  
Sherlock tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "Why should you suffer through it alone?"  
  
"Harry will be there. And several of our cousins and aunts and uncles; maybe our grandda, if he's up and moving about, heh, he's something else-,"  
  
"You'll still be alone."  
  
John swallowed thickly; he knew what Sherlock meant, and a tiny spring of hope swelled in his chest. He perked when Sherlock spoke again.  
  
"From what I heard and surmise, it'll be a disaster either way, correct?"  
  
John laughed again, more softly this time. "Yes- Yes, that's true. Sherlock, it's something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Are you sure-,"  
  
The hands on John's legs tightened as Sherlock leaned in, straightening his back proudly. "When I suggested this test between us, I meant every word. I want to be where you are, no matter where that is, at all times. I will be sorely offended if you left without me. You think the flaming eyeballs were bad."  
  
"Oh god, are you threatening me?" John couldn't help but chuckle, covering his mouth to muffle it.  
  
"Oh yes I am." Sherlock's mouth curled into a relieved smile. "And no snogging for a week. No- Correction. Four days."  
  
John arched a brow. "Four days?"  
  
Sherlock pressed closer, his gaze calmly serious. "I couldn't go longer than four days; hopefully that would test your limit as well."  
  
"Four hours would be my limit," John replied happily, leaning down to pull Sherlock's face up to his. They shared a long, deep kiss, scraping their tongues together hungrily, their teeth clinking at times as they worked through some clumsiness at the odd angle.  
  
John panted erratically when he pulled away, staring down in awe. Sherlock's hair was mussed, his fingers tangled hopelessly in the thick curls. A faint flush had spread across the arched cheekbones, the curved lips swollen and glistening. The silvered eyes were dilated and half-hooded already, holding dark promises that John wanted to hear and know and feel intimately _._  
  
"Sherlock-,"  
  
"Can I say you're beautiful?" Sherlock interrupted breathlessly. "Or is the term too feminine for your preference?"  
  
John blinked stupidly, brow furrowing as he internally repeated Sherlock's question. "Er- No. Not coming from you, I suppose. You reading my mind again? 'Cause I was just thinking how bloody gorgeous _you_ are."  
  
Sherlock reached up, fumbling to slide a hand under John's shirt and trail up his chest. The nails dragging into his skin made John's breath hitch. "When you give someone your attention, they can physically see that you are.  It's one of your best qualities. And when you look at me like that, John, it's beautiful."  
  
John's toes curled into the carpet, a warm happiness spreading through body. Harry's call and subsequent fury and fear seemed worlds away. "I'm the same, Sherlock. You've always made me feel a treasure when you focus on me."  
  
"Are you certain about dismissing the trial aspect?" Sherlock blurted restlessly.  
  
"Yeah." John huffed down at him, linking his ankles behind Sherlock's back to pull him nearer. "I don't want to go back to living so close but so frustratingly far apart from you."  
  
Sherlock was silent for a moment and John waited patiently, absently rubbing the ball of his foot into Sherlock's spine.  
  
"John." Sherlock groped for John's hands and gripped them tightly. "Spend the rest of your life with me."  
  
John paused, taking a moment to memorise the rare, soft glimmer in Sherlock's gaze. "I will. Of course I will. You won't be rid of me easily."  
  
"Good." Sherlock tilted his head, resting his cheek against John's thigh. "That's a relief."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references the BBC Episode 'A Scandal in Belgravia.'
> 
> John doesn't know how to drive here because Martin Freeman (the actor who portrays him in the BBC show) doesn't know how to drive. xD


	24. Experimenting With Sherlock (Chap 2)

Sherlock was unusually attentive after they decided to pack up and return to the flat. While it wasn't unheard of for them to disappear for days on end, John knew Mrs. Hudson would be upset about the mess Sherlock had left.  
  
Besides, while the hotel was impossibly grand and lovely, John preferred the simple chaos of home.  
  
John watched his friend dart about with great interest, gathering their few belongings and cramming them into the overnight bag. Sherlock wasn't this hyper unless there was a new scent to follow, but as far as John could tell the case from yesterday was already over. He asked Sherlock about it as they were leaving; not surprisingly, Sherlock dismissed it as child's play, he didn't know why Lestrade had called for them at all, and the inspector would have the murderer by the end of the day. Sherlock's deductive part was over, and thus it was finished in his mind.  
  
"Are we going out for breakfast then?" John tugged his coat closed against the bitter wind. "Oh, look there. That was a bit of snow, wasn't it?"  
  
"Ugh. Probably. Breakfast, yes, for you." Sherlock turned to glance down at him distractedly. "I've somewhere to go. I'll meet you at the flat later."  
  
"Oh." John frowned slightly, wondering if it was worth the effort to ask where. "I'll go with, then. Not too keen to face Mrs. Hudson just yet. Especially alone, after that mess..."  
  
Sherlock was already shaking his head. "I must go alone. I'll be a few hours- hopefully no more."  
  
"And why can't I come?" John huffed, curling his arm around Sherlock's and holding on defiantly. "You insist on going everywhere with me now, yet I can't do the same?"  
  
"It's for Christmas," Sherlock replied, gesturing theatrically. "A surprise. You like those."  
  
"I'm not too fond of your types of surprises," John teased. "Besides, I don't want anything but you this Christmas. Honest."  
  
"But that's the point _._  And I'm telling you nothing else," Sherlock said firmly, unhooking their arms and taking a step toward the curb. John followed, tugging lightly at his sleeve.  
  
"Fine, be all mysterious and dramatic," John muttered. "If it's that important. But spare me a kiss before you rush off?"  
  
Sherlock hesitated, a flash of confusion crossing his face, and John felt a twinge of disappointment that he seemed surprised at the suggestion. But then Sherlock's grinning mouth was fastened to his, the sounds and sights around them narrowing in to the feel of Sherlock's urgent hands on his hips, tugging him flush against the lithe body. John dropped the bag at their feet and twined his arms around the long neck, locking Sherlock against him a warm wet tongue slid past his lips.  
  
He'd had to stretch to kiss girls before, especially when they were tall and wore heels, and that had always bothered John for an unnamed reason. Now, tilting his face up to meet Sherlock's was a glorious thing, a thrilling privilege he'd never tire of.  
  
Sherlock pulled away with a flourish, a mad spark in his eye. "Will that last you 'til I get home?"  
  
"Just barely," John grinned breathlessly. "Eat something, won't you? On the way?" He laughed when Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "Do, for me. Won't you?"  
  
"If I have the time. And appetite," Sherlock acquiesced, and John nodded in agreement. "I'll fetch you a cab, don't forget the bag- Ah, here's one."  
  
"How do you _do_ that?" John asked as the cab rolled to a stop beside them. "You wave your hand and one magically appears."  
  
"One of my many talents," Sherlock said with a wide smile. He opened the door wider as John shoved himself in, pushing the duffel to the other side before settling in the seat.  
  
John waited for the door to click shut, then glanced up curiously after a few seconds. Sherlock was standing there, resting his weight on the door, looking down at John with one of those intense stares he was so famous for. It made John's skin tingle pleasurably.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Yes, off you go, then." Sherlock closed the door and the moment was broken, but John was left smiling to himself the entire drive back to the flat.  
  
Predictably, Mrs. Hudson was not pleased when he stumbled in. He wondered yet again if she had the ears of a hound, what with how much she repeated of their arguments at times.  
  
 _"John!"_  
  
John grimaced, pulling it into a sheepish smile as Mrs. Hudson walked up to him. She rarely called him by name, and it was only when she was upset she did so.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he replied quietly, gesturing up the stairs.  
  
"What did he do?" she asked crossly. "It took me all last evening to clean and air the flat! That smell had gotten everywhere _,_ even in my rooms. I dread to think how yours must be."  
  
John groaned, slumping against the wall. "It'll be bad, I assume, as it's at the top."  
  
"I didn't want to go in, dearie, you know," she said apologetically. "I thought about at least opening your window but the door was locked."  
  
"It's quite alright," John chuckled, shaking his head. "I lock it by habit; serves me right for chasing Sherlock out so quickly, but I couldn't take the smell. It's fine, Mrs. Hudson," he added when she gave him a mothering look. "You've nothing to be sorry for! I'll sleep in Sherlock's room, anyway."  
  
He paused, glancing over guiltily at her, but she just smiled and patted his shoulder.  
  
"I saw the papers," she said cheerfully. "So happy for you both! But really _,_ dearie, could you keep him from making such a mess?"  
  
"Sure, after I make pigs fly." John shouldered the duffel and grinned. "As you're fond of saying: I'm just his flatmate, not his keeper."  
  
She tittered a laugh and smacked at his arm lightly. "You're so good for Sherlock, you really are. He's just not been the same dreary boy since you've been around."  
  
"So I've heard."  
  
"Dare I ask where he is?"  
  
"Not a clue," John shrugged. "Stayed up all night and ran off this morning after bustling me into a taxi." His stomach rumbled, and he leaned in with a bright smile. "I've not breakfasted; have you? I'll join you, if I can invite myself for your homemade scones."  
  
"I'll just put the kettle on," she said with a roll of her eyes.  
  
John had a chatty meal with Mrs. Hudson, letting her draw out minor details of their new relationship. He was all too eager to talk of it, anyway, and she confessed she had been very curious. Afterwards, she convinced him to walk her to the grocer, and he left a note for Sherlock before heading out into the swelling winter storm. The snow was moving in, blanketing the walls and streets with a dusting of white, and by the time they returned to the flat they had to shake the snow off their shoes before going in. Sherlock hadn't been in, but John did get a text just as he was coaxing a fire in the fireplace.  
  
 _People don't listen. Why don't they listen? Taking longer than predicted. –SH_  
  
John chuckled, settling in his favourite chair and spreading the paper across his knees before replying.  _They're too busy staring at your arse to listen. Or is that just me?_  
  
He grinning, wishing he could see Sherlock's expression when he read the text; he had to settle for waiting for Sherlock's reply, which didn't come for close to ten minutes.  
  
 _You are welcome to stare. –SH_  
  
Heat not related to the fire flushed across John's cheeks, and he coughed softly to himself as he shook the paper back out, his eyes unfocused as his mind wandered back to the shower, to the rivulets of water cascading down the angular body as Sherlock watched him with such unbridled awe, and god the erotic noises he made as John sucked him repeatedly into his mouth-  
  
His mobile beeped again, and John shifted to ease the tightness in his pants as he checked the text.  
  
 _I require your company this evening in my bed. I wish it to smell of you. –SH_  
  
John settled deeper into the chair, a curl of desire warming his belly. _Then I am your man._  
  
A moment later, and John's breath hitched as he read the short reply. _Yes you are. –SH_


	25. Experimenting With Sherlock (Chap 3)

John was so keyed up he was pacing by the time the front door banged open and Sherlock ran up the stairs. Sherlock's arms went wide to protect the heavy plastic bags as John threw himself at his chest, causing him to stumble back a step under the sudden weight. John waited until Sherlock's mouth opened to form a question before he surged up on his toes for a kiss, his tongue sliding past the parted lips easily. The warmth that had begun when he'd read Sherlock's texts fanned into a passionate fire, giving him the courage to reach down and squeeze the tight arse he'd been daydreaming about since.  
  
When he finally pulled away, Sherlock groaned needily.  
  
"What was that for?"  
  
John grinned, grabbing another handful of Sherlock's backside for good measure. "I missed you."  
  
"Perhaps I should go out and come in again," Sherlock panted. "But- No, there's no time. Go sit."  
  
"No time? Time for what?"  
  
"Just sit _,_ " Sherlock commanded, flailing one hand toward John's chair, the thin bag bouncing dangerously. "I've planned the next two days until we must leave to meet your family, and I will be rather furious if we don't get to everything. Go."  
  
"You've planned?" John said in astonishment, reluctantly releasing his grip on Sherlock before returning to his chair. "You mean you've thought ahead of this moment in time without being prompted or, you know, held at gunpoint? I'm impressed."  
  
"I much prefer to live in the here and now, but setting goals within a reasonable timeframe is not unknown to me. I would never have excelled in the sciences if I couldn't. Stay there." Sherlock flashed him a cheeky smile and disappeared into his room for a few moments. John's chest tightened anxiously as his mind raced, conjuring more wild and vivid ideas as to just what Sherlock was doing.  
  
But Sherlock reemerged a moment later, now wrapped in his dressing gown, to dart into the kitchen; creating a cacophony of noises before he trailed into the sitting room and set a plate of lukewarm food in John's lap.  
  
"Take away? Oh, from that Thai place down the street?" John's stomach rumbled appreciatively. "Well, that's thoughtful of you." He glanced up with an easy smile to find Sherlock staring intently down at him. "What?"  
  
"You approve?"  
  
"...Yes?" John drawled, arching a brow curiously. "Why wouldn't I?"  
  
Sherlock relaxed visibly as he turned to fetch another plate from the kitchen, then sat in the chair opposite. "I've been forced to engage in circular conversations with morons all day. I theorised you wouldn't mind eating in if I retrieved your favourite meal from the few restaurants we frequent."  
  
"Yes, and just where have you been all day?" John asked as casually as he could manage. He was pleased to see Sherlock tuck into his food with relish, though that also probably meant he hadn't eaten yet.  
  
Sherlock glanced up with a pained, bitter expression. "My first business was with Mycroft. I was forced to ask a favour. I would've rather chewed glass, but there was nothing to be done for it. I had to go to him specifically."  
  
"A favour?" John winced sympathetically. "Which means he'll cash that in whenever he feels like it?"  
  
"Undoubtedly at precisely the wrong moment for maximum agony and inconvenience," Sherlock seethed, his food momentarily forgotten in his anger. "And oh, how he strutted. I wanted to punch the smirk off his slimy face."  
  
John tilted his head down to catch Sherlock's gaze. "It wasn't for me, was it? This present you were going on about?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Oh, Sherlock." John grimaced again. "It's not worth it!" He started when Sherlock gestured sharply at him, a smile breaking his melancholy.  
  
"Oh, but it is. It really is, John. Trust me."  
  
Despite Sherlock's earlier misgivings, John felt a thrill of anticipation. "I take back what I said. If you think this is worth asking Mycroft for something, I know I'll want it. Thank you, Sherlock."  
  
"Don't thank me until you know what it is."  
  
"Pish posh. I know it's got to be important." John bit his lip, looking down at his food. He hadn't thought of getting Sherlock anything, aside from a set of new bow strings to hopefully tempt him to play more often-  
  
"I'll pick up the violin tomorrow, if you insist. But I require nothing for the holiday."  
  
John scowled, pointing over at him. "Stop doing that. It's creepy."  
  
"Then perhaps you could at least not visually scream what you're thinking?" Sherlock suggested lightly. "It's become entirely too simple to know what you're thinking most of the time."  
  
"Smarmy bastard."  
  
"Does that bother you?"  
  
John snorted a laugh, shaking his head as he set his plate aside. "Sherlock, if that bothered me I would've left the week I moved in. Or not moved in at all, actually."  
  
"You wouldn't've come, even if it were dangerous?" Sherlock asked in a low, sultry tone that made John's toes curl.  
  
"No, I would've stayed home, where it's nice and safe and dull _._ "  
  
Sherlock slid out of his seat, and John watched him walk over, mesmerised by the slant of his hips under the clingy robe. "And you wouldn't've shot the cabbie, of course."  
  
John had to catch his breath before responding. "Definitely not."  
  
Sherlock slowly crawled into his lap, settling heavily as he draped himself against the shorter man. John's hands automatically went to his waist, tugging to pull him close. "And you wouldn't've attacked Moriarty at the pool to buy us time."  
  
"To give you time to escape, you idiot," John sighed, reaching up to lock his arms around the long neck.  
  
Sherlock let himself be bent over, his lips sliding next to John's ear to whisper.  "And you wouldn't've gone to your knees and sucked my prick as if you were starving?"  
  
"I want to do that again," John moaned, throwing his head back against the chair. He was rewarded with Sherlock's teeth raking down his throat. "Really, really want to do that again."  
  
"Not on the agenda tonight, but I'll see what I can do." Sherlock nuzzled the crook of his neck. "But first, I have to ask you one thing."  
  
"Anything. Just get on with it."  
  
"Does it- or would it- bother you if I refer to collecting data about you?" Sherlock pulled back enough to catch John's eye. "You've expressed dismay at the term, but I want to reassure you I mean it in the most thoughtful manner. I need to find your erogenous zones, memorise your skin, bones and irregularities- and so on. I would verbalise this as collecting data. Does that offend you?"  
  
"No, not at all." John leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the sharp-tipped nose. "I understand what you mean now. It's all fine."  
  
Sherlock grinned immediately, hands slipping impatiently under John's sweater. "Excellent. Now strip so I can begin."  
  
"What- Here?" John tossed a glance back toward the door, which hadn't been closed properly from his rush to greet Sherlock earlier. "Maybe we should-,"  
  
"John." Sherlock leveled a stern look that would've had Lestrade shifting on his feet. "We won't be bothered. There's no time to waste, now off with it all."  
  
"How do you know?" John muttered as he scooted to the edge of the chair, letting Sherlock wiggle his sweater up and over his head.  
  
"I briefly told Mrs. Hudson what I had planned for the evening." Sherlock paused, arching a brow playfully. "She told me to get upstairs and to watch my language."  
  
"Oh god." John rubbed a hand down his face, feeling a flush of embarrassment. "Let me do the talking about us, okay? You're a bit… forthright."  
  
"Nothing she hasn't guessed at," Sherlock shrugged, his fingers cleverly picking at the zipper in John's trousers. "Stand so I can get these off you."  
  
"Now look." John pushed himself to his feet, pulling Sherlock close with a fist twisted in the dressing gown. "If I've got to do this, so do you."  
  
"Oh alright. Just don't tear my robe- I'm overly fond of it."


	26. Experimenting With Sherlock (Chap 4)

Even though it earned a disapproving stare from Sherlock, John insisted on crossing the room to close the door before he let Sherlock divest him of the rest of his clothes. Then both of them fumbled with Sherlock's pajamas, easily tugging them off and away. Sherlock shoved him back into his chair and stood over him, staring down with an unnerving intensity. John took the opportunity to review the curves and jutting angles along Sherlock's torso, the way the planes of his buttocks led into the slender thighs, and the fascinating trail of dark hair that so deliciously framed the half-hardened erection.  
  
After a moment of quiet scrutiny, John shifted and crossed his ankles awkwardly. "Well?"  
  
"Well what?"  
  
John huffed in amusement. "You're staring."  
  
"You're staring at me."  
  
"Yes, well, shouldn't you be… Isn't there something to be doing now?" John asked desperately. He shifted again when Sherlock knelt, lightly pressing his knees apart.  
  
"If you must know, this is an exercise. You're self-conscious for some unfathomable reason, and I will continue to look at you until you relax."  
  
"If you must know, you have a rather uneasy stare," John teased. "You've seen how people pause when you look at them, yeah?"  
  
Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly in a frown. "Then I must train you out of that response. It's completely unwarranted in your case."  
  
"Train me?" John chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm not your pet, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock's sharp eyes continuing to roam over John's body. "Verbal stimulus might help then. Do you know what I see?"  
  
"More than I do, I imagine." John glanced down at himself, releasing a slow breath. He'd been much more fit when in the Army; he'd been such a skinny lad when he'd wandered into the first day of Basic. That had changed rapidly; his body took well to exercise and schedules, even if he still hated early mornings. He'd never been overly muscular, but he had been strong- still was, in fact- and more than one officer had told him he'd been wasted as an orderly, and later a doctor.  
  
Now, however, chasing after Sherlock was the extent of his work-outs, which was coupled with days or weeks on end of sitting and enduring Sherlock's madness while waiting for the next puzzle. He hadn't gone completely soft, but he wasn't fit by any stretch of the imagination. His thighs splayed more than they ever had and his belly was rounder and fuller than he remembered.  
  
"Think I should take on a diet?" he mused, smoothing a hand down his side and wrinkling his nose. "It prob-,"  
  
 _"No!"_  
  
John started from the exclamation, mystified by the sudden rage. "Sherlock?"  
  
"Absolutely not," Sherlock snapped, pressing forward and sliding his hands down John's chest. "I want you to remain exactly like this- within reason, I know the physical body will age. But this _,_ John." His glare softened as his hands went up to rest on John's shoulders. "You're the very picture of perfection."  
  
John couldn't help the small laugh that bubbled up. "I am not _,_ Sherlock! You should've seen me a few years ago, I was-,"  
  
"You were tolerable then _,_ and you're perfect now _,_ " Sherlock interjected smoothly. "I'll sit here and argue the point with you all evening if I must."  
  
"I'm not trim," John said curiously. "Not like I used to be. How do you kn-,"  
  
"I've seen photos." Sherlock waved a hand irritably. "Military records are easy to produce if you know how. You're infinitely more appealing here and now."  
  
A tension John hadn't known was inside him relaxed. "…And how's that?"  
  
"I haven't found a term for exactly what I think of you," Sherlock said carefully. "But the facts are thus: I derive great pleasure in watching you eat and from hoping you'll maintain your current weight and form. The way weight settles on your frame is both pleasing to look at and sexually arousing. The idea of you losing weight or redefining your muscle mass is disconcerting and has a negative effect on my current mood."  
  
He paused, holding up a hand as John sputtered. "Of course I wish you to remain healthy, and do not wish to see you rapidly gain weight or become uncomfortable physically or emotionally. But this _,_ John…" Sherlock leaned forward, resting his cheek against John's abdomen, looking up through dark lashes with an expression of pure joy. "Perfect _._ "  
  
John sat rigid through the confession, shocked into silence long after Sherlock's words died away. He tangled his fingers in the black curls, smoothing them off the pale forehead before they drifted back, a soothing rhythm that calmed his racing heart.  
  
"There," Sherlock said finally with a note of triumph. "Now you're looking relaxed."  
  
"I am," John replied honestly. "I still say you're a bit teched, though."  
  
Sherlock shrugged, giving one of his patented _Why should I care?_ looks before standing. "Now, John, I'd like for you to answer questions while I begin."  
  
John's dick twitched eagerly at that. "Begin what, exactly?"  
  
"Finding everything which makes you jump, moan, melt, and any other manner of positive reactions I can coax from you," Sherlock purred against his ear. One hand slipped down John's chest, nails scraping purposefully; John's breathing hitched, and he could feel Sherlock grinning. "Such as that. I would like to ask you questions as I do so; things I don't know about you yet. Personal history and such. Would that disturb you?"  
  
"N-No." John swallowed thickly, laying his head back to stare up at Sherlock.  
  
"Stuttering, and I've barely touched you?" Sherlock's lips curved into an evil smirk. "Come now, John. You have to make me work for it at least a little."  
  
John set his chin defiantly. "I can do that."  
  
"Good." The single word was breathed against his ear and John felt his arms go limp at the rich voice.  
  
The next hour was torture- a pleasant, luscious, impossibly slow torture as Sherlock dragged his hands, nails, teeth and tongue across what he could reach of John's body. John was surprised to hear himself make all manner of embarrassing noises as Sherlock stroked and petted and talked. The questions were at times mundane, even odd- though they eventually descended into a more sexual theme. Did he know how to ride horseback? Had he ever been particularly religious? When had he developed a love of classical music? At what age did he begin masturbating? Who was the first person he'd seen naked in a sexual setting? What was his main sexual fantasy five years ago?  
  
It was increasingly difficult to answer as Sherlock continued on, giving John's body a thorough exploration except the throbbing erection that bobbed and leaked so pitifully. Sherlock's questions were blurring together as John's mind focused more and more heavily on the problem at hand, screaming for attention in the one area Sherlock avoided so carefully.  
  
"-in bed?"  
  
"What?" John asked hazily, shaking his head. "Sherlock, you're driving me mad _._ "  
  
"I said…" Sherlock settled on his knees once again, pressing in between John's legs-  
  
 _Oh god yes just there just a bit further Sherlock please-_  
  
"-Are you particularly adventurous in bed?"  
  
John shifted down in the chair, biting back a moan when Sherlock matched his movement backwards. "What's that mean?"  
  
"Do you enjoy and employ sex toys, bondage, fantasy roleplaying, domming/subbing, anything of that nature?" Sherlock glanced up at John's frantic wriggling with an infuriatingly placid expression. "I've never observed any burns, welts or abnormalities upon your person, so I would deduce you're either the one who dominates or you simply do not participate in the raunchier kinks."  
  
"Oh, _that._ " John felt his face reddening further. "No, not- not really done any of that."  
  
Sherlock tilted his head. John groaned as he leaned in, the sculpted lips so, so close now-  
  
"Would you be willing to?"  
  
John froze, beating back a flare of panic. _Sherlock plus sex toys_ did all sorts of weird things to his stomach- as if it couldn't decide if he was thrilled or terrified. "L-Like what?"  
  
"We can set boundaries later, of course." Sherlock's warm breath flowed over John's prick, which jumped impatiently. "But for a mild example… I would like to immobilize your extremities and gag you with something soft and malleable so the delightful noises you make would sound much more desperate while I have my way with you."  
  
"That's mild?" John gasped, closing his eyes and biting his lip as the visuals washed over him.  
  
"Quite mild. Oh, and perhaps a blindfold? Though- No, that would have to be a separate occasion." Sherlock smirked up at him. "It would be very satisfying to have you watch and beg through a gag."  
  
"Yes, yes alright?" John gritted his teeth, peeking one eye open to glance down. "That- That sounds- fantastic, actually. Stop smiling like that, it's gone all creepy."  
  
Sherlock's smug smile widened. "Excellent. One more thing…"  
  
John gripped the arms of the chair and groaned. "What? What _,_ Sherlock, hurry and ask so-," His breath left him in a rush as Sherlock brushed the flushed head with his lips in a gentle kiss.  
  
"Would you do that to me?"  
  
 _Sherlock spread naked on their bed, struggling against the ties and trying to babble and moan through a thick cloth as he licked and sucked and teased-_  
  
"Oh god,  _yes,_ " John moaned. "If- If anything, it'd get you to shut up long enough f-for me to get at you."  
  
Sherlock's eyes gleamed merrily as his warm, wet tongue darted out to lap hungrily at the underside of John's prick. John jerked in his seat, hips thrusting to search for more. "Interesting; you've gotten harder- if that's possible- at the last suggestion. Do you enjoy the thought of me at your mercy?"  
  
" _Yes,_ " John hissed, fisting his hands in Sherlock's hair and pushing hard enough to press Sherlock's lips to the head again. " _Sherlock-,_ "  
  
"Order me," Sherlock rasped, his voice husky with lust. "Tell me what you want. Pull my hair. Shove me down on your thick cock. Fuck my mouth, _captain._ "  
  
" _Oh god._ " John didn't question his sudden good fortune, nor Sherlock's strange use of his military rank; he did exactly as Sherlock said, though the tiny bit of sanity floating amidst the desire warned him to not be too rough. As far as he knew, Sherlock had never done this either, and he dreaded the thought of hurting him.  
  
But he was just rough enough _,_ and watching his prick disappear past the soft lips and slide against the inviting tongue was a truly gorgeous sight _;_ felt stupidly amazing. When he tugged lightly at the dark curls and Sherlock moaned around him, John threw his head back with a cry.  
  
"Sherlock close so fucking good- so close-,"  
  
 _"Mmmmm."_  
  
John snapped his head down as his body tensed and shuddered, gasping Sherlock's name as he stared down into the mercurial eyes, filled with want and need and love and he lost it, flooding Sherlock's mouth with another frantic whisper of his name. He felt Sherlock swallow, the light pressure around the head sending him into another shudder of pleasure before he slumped into the chair, breathless.  
  
Sherlock sat back, watching John with a decidedly predatory stare as he slowly, purposefully licked his lips. A second later he gasped as John lunged from the chair, pressing Sherlock down into the rug and pinning his wrists to the floor. He grinned at the surprised expression, and laughed when he felt Sherlock's neglected erection press eagerly against his stomach.  
  
"Stay there."  
  
"Yes, John."  
  
John shivered at the quiet, awed tone; he shimmied down Sherlock's body far enough to bend his head and swallow as much of Sherlock's prick as he could. And like before, Sherlock immediately came undone.  
  
"J-John your tongue is- is the m-most glorious thing in- I'm too close John _John Johnn~!_ "  
  
John was more prepared this time, and he managed to both swallow and tug Sherlock in as deep as he could as he convulsed under him. The gibberish Sherlock degenerated into gave him another round of pleasure, just as intense as a moment before.  
  
Slowly Sherlock calmed, and John shifted up to curl against his side, nuzzling his face into the dip of his shoulder.  
  
"John…" Sherlock sounded sleepy; it made John smile.  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"I…"  Sherlock's hands fluttered before settling around John's back in a possessive embrace. "I have so much I want to say, but no words."  
  
"I don't need them this time, Sherlock." John sighed, pressing a light kiss to the pale skin. "I just need this."


	27. Experimenting With Sherlock (Chap 5)

It took an inordinate amount of encouragement and cajoling from both of them to rise from the floor and make their way to Sherlock's room. John managed to hook his boxers onto his foot as they stumbled in, and bent to pull them on when there was a loud _whump_ and Sherlock's hands grasping at his from where he'd fallen across the bed.  
  
"No no _no no_ John _nooo-_ "  
  
"What?" John snapped with an exasperated huff. "No what?"  
  
"No clothes, John, no clothes _,_ " Sherlock muttered, digging his fingers into the material and sliding them back down his legs.  
  
"I- Well- If you want." John bit his lip, glancing down at himself before sitting on the bed. "Haven't done that in years- since I was a teenager, probably. A young one, at that."  
  
Sherlock dove under the covers, pulling them back with a sly smile. "Do you mind terribly?"  
  
"No, I suppose not." John settled next to him with a soft sigh, smiling when he felt Sherlock wrap so cleverly around him. "Definitely not."  
  
"Good, very good."  
  
John rested his chin against the top of Sherlock's head, the thick curls tickling his face. "So, did you do everything you set out to do this evening?"  
  
"Sadly not," Sherlock yawned, stretching lazily before clinging to John again. "I did not anticipate you ensuring my own orgasm tonight, and it seems afterwards I become enormously tired. Did- Did you know-," Sherlock trailed off into another yawn, and John interrupted him before he could continue.  
  
"Sherlock, why wouldn't you think I would?"  
  
"Would what?"  
  
John gestured at them vaguely. "You know. Get you off too."  
  
There was a long pause, and John had to nudge him to make sure he was still awake.  
  
"It appears I have not created any reminders- 'flags', I call them- to consider myself when you are involved. My satisfaction is the last on the list, if it's on it at all. It's about you, John. You're all I can think of."  
  
"Well, make some," John huffed. "For us _._ "  
  
"I'll endeavour to soon. I have entirely too much data and fresh memories to organise and sort tomorrow, which will be compounded by- Say, you meet your rugby club tomorrow?"  
  
"Hm? Oh. What day is it? I think so. Probably." John frowned up at the ceiling. "We still meet before Christmas, even if it's close to the date. I'll give Lyndon a ring in the morning. Oh, but Sherlock…" John shook his head, jostling them both, "You'll be miserable if you come. We drink and play darts or poker and relive old stories. You'll be rather bored."  
  
Sherlock tilted his head up just enough to catch John's gaze, and the thoroughly impish smile that curled his lips filled John with dread. "Don't fret, Doctor. I've prepared for that inevitability. I promise you, I won't be bored in the least."  
  
" _…_ What did you do?"  
  
"You'll see." Sherlock resettled and clung tightly to his chest. "Good night, John."  
  
John stretched down, nosing the curled hair affectionately. "'Night, Sherlock."  
  
As far as John could tell, Sherlock slipped into sleep immediately, his grip relaxing as his breathing slowed to a deep, steady rhythm. He couldn't resist sliding a hand down Sherlock's back repeatedly, indulging himself in the feel of the smooth skin he'd admired for so long but never touched. It was a dizzying thought that he could do this now, whenever he wanted.  
  
His mind drifted lazily to Sherlock's comment about 'flags'. Had he really not thought John would think of reciprocating? He had before, and very enthusiastically, but apparently that'd had no bearing on this evening.  
  
Sherlock had many selfish habits, and if John were honest with himself he wouldn't have been surprised if that attitude had carried over into the bedroom. And yet…  
  
John smiled as he remembered the surprised, awed expression when he'd tackled Sherlock backwards tonight; when he'd gone to his knees in the shower and Sherlock had realised just what he was going to do.  
  
He sighed deeply, shifting to get more comfortable, and Sherlock moved with him to keep as much contact as possible. The only conclusion could be what he'd thought all along; that Sherlock wasn't an egotistical bastard at heart.  
  
 _Fact 7: I am a very, very lucky man._  
  
It was nearly three in the morning when John's bladder woke him, and he found to his delight he only had to stumble across the hallway and not down a flight of darkened stairs to relieve himself. On his way back in he found his shoulder aching, and he pressed at his old wound with a frown of annoyance. Sherlock's bed must be older than his, with a dip in the middle that put pressure in all the wrong places in his back. He'd have to ask about swapping the mattresses if they were going to sleep down here from now on.  
  
Would they? He grinned at the thought of Sherlock fussing over his room and moving his few belongings downstairs- then paused when he stepped in and saw Sherlock sitting up in bed, his face sharply lit by the streetlight streaming through the single window.  
  
It wasn't until John scooted into the bed beside him that he realised he hadn't worn a scrap of clothing on his little trip. "Have a good stare?"  
  
"John."  Sherlock glanced aside at him. "Am I awake?"  
  
"Yes. Absolutely." He put a hand on the pale shoulder, frowning when Sherlock started slightly. "You okay?"  
  
"You're absolutely certain?"  
  
"Yes. Sherlock, what is it?"  
  
Instead of replying, Sherlock sighed noisily and fell back against his pillow, curling on his side facing away. John tugged the sheets up and over them before settling gently against Sherlock's back, one arm resting over his waist to hold him close.  
  
"Sherlock, tell me?"  
  
"Are you sure being scared- no, terrified, is expected in relationships?"  
  
"Yes, otherwise it isn't a real one," John said patiently. "Say what's bothering you; maybe I can help."  
  
"I woke and you weren't here." Sherlock's hands raised and fluttered nervously. "And for a moment I was positive it was all a dream. An extremely vivid dream, but not actually real _._ "  
  
John relaxed, tangling their legs together as he buried his nose in the curled hair. "Perfectly normal, Sherlock. I promise you. You're awake; you have me and I have you; I'm not going anywhere."  
  
"As odd as it seems, your verbal reassurances are comforting. I wouldn't've thought mere words could induce calm _._ "  
  
John laughed at his obvious puzzlement. "That's normal too. I'm sorry I gave you a scare."  
  
"It was unintentional; you've no need to apologise."  
  
"Still." John slid his hand up Sherlock's chest, rubbing at the light smattering of hair. "Sherlock, you're incredibly special, did you know?"  
  
"I believe the word is eccentric _._ " Sherlock sounded sleepily amused, and John allowed himself a smile as he nuzzled the back of his neck.  
  
"That too, but you are. You know that whole 'my other half' rubbish? Well, I thought it was rubbish at least, though I held out some hope. Despaired of ever finding someone I could feel complete with. And that's you, Sherlock; the best way I can describe you."  
  
Sherlock sighed wearily, but dropped a hand to grip John's tightly. "You're not going to go on about soulmates and stars aligning and destiny and all that, are you? Or worse, start composing what you consider poetry?"  
  
John winced at that, and he felt Sherlock tense against him. "No. And definitely not now. But you're going to have to give me some slack in that area. I _like_ being romantic, not ashamed of it, and you're just going to have to suffer through it. Besides," John huffed, withdrawing his hand and rolling onto his back, "You've told me such wonderful things the last few days, but I've been a bit dazed to tell you what I think of you _,_ how you make me feel. You should learn to take a compliment, a real one, without snapping at me."  
  
The silence stretched uncomfortably; John sighed after several minutes, head digging deeper into his pillow and letting his mind wander. The edge of sleep was creeping in when he felt the bed shift and a warm body move to settle atop him. He could just see a silvered fleck lit in one of Sherlock's eyes as they stared at each other in the darkness. When Sherlock spoke, he was so quiet John could barely hear.  
  
"I've never been someone's other half."  
  
John circled Sherlock's waist with his arms. "I know."  
  
"I've never been someone's anything _,_ really. Except an annoyance. Or responsibility _._ Or enemy."  
  
"Yes, I know." John smiled tiredly. "It's alright."  
  
"You're having to be rather patient with me, aren't you?"  
  
"Just a bit, but how's that any different from usual?" John chuckled. "You can't learn something this big overnight. Or in a week. Or in a lifetime, probably."  
  
"That's very frustrating," Sherlock replied sharply. "I want to know it all now _._ "  
  
"But that's the fun of it." John grinned up at him. "Relationships aren't a destination. You're supposed to enjoy the ride, not hurry to get to the end."  
  
"…I see." Sherlock yawned, drooping his head onto John's chest. "I'm not scared anymore. You can go to sleep now."  
  
"Glad I have your permission," John said dryly, laughing when he felt Sherlock smirk against his skin.


	28. Experimenting With Sherlock (Chap 6)

"Sherlock? Leaving in fifteen."  
  
"Fifteen?" Sherlock's head snapped up from the microscope at the kitchen table. "Fifteen _minutes?_ "  
  
John checked his watch, then glanced out at the darkened windows. "Yeah, thereabouts. Remember? My rugby club? Aren't you ready? You're dressed."  
  
"No!" Sherlock bolted from the table, the stool clattering to the floor as he rushed into the bedroom and slammed the door shut.  
  
John watched this sudden panic with mild amusement, then returned to not-reading the paper. It had been an extremely satisfying day, and this evening was shaping up to be wonderful as well. He had woken cuddled against Sherlock, who was faceplanted on the bed and snoring in the most adorable manner. Straddling his back and waking Sherlock with a light massage had evolved into a sleepy yet very satisfying round of trading handjobs, which had led to a clumsy washing off in the small shower. It barely fit them both, but John found it to be perfect; no matter where he stood he was always touching Sherlock.  
  
The rest of the day had been quiet; no texts from Lestrade, no criminals to hunt, but Sherlock seemed manically happy. He'd played the violin vigorously for several hours after John had forced a bit of breakfast down him, and had even offered to bring the instrument with them tomorrow to the family dinner. John was overjoyed; both he and Harriet loved music, and certainly Sherlock's talent would help soothe any hurt feelings.  
  
What was the most surprising was that Sherlock had taken a nap of his own volition _,_  sprawled askew on the sofa with his feet resting in John's lap.  
  
John wasn't sure what to make of Sherlock's good humour today, but he enjoyed it while it lasted. There were times he'd catch Sherlock with that familiar wicked excitement lighting his eyes and the anticipation for their evening out was getting worse by the hour.  
  
Exactly seventeen minutes since Sherlock had fled he reentered the room; his smug smile knotted John's stomach in a pleasant way. He set the paper aside and stood, tugging his sweater down. He really should take on a diet, as all his old clothes were edging on the too-small side nowadays.  
  
"All ready?"  
  
"Nearly. Here, take this." Sherlock gripped John's hand impatiently and dropped a small object in it. John glanced down curiously, thumbing the bit of black machinery before turning it over. It was simple, with a segmented LED screen and two buttons, each with arrows pointing in opposite directions.  
  
"Wait, don't tell me." John laughed to himself as he held it up to the light. "You come with a remote? My god, why didn't you tell me before? Oh! Do you have a mute button?" He twiddled the up arrow; the screen flashed to life and went from zero to one, then two, then three- then Sherlock jumped with a soft cry and gripped his arm too tightly.  
  
" _Hnnngh_ don't go past four please _._ "  
  
John stared up at him in fascination. "You- You don't actually come with a remote, do you? Did the mothership send you with one?"  
  
"Don't be silly." Sherlock licked his lower lip, eyes dancing gleefully. "But the vibrating bullet I've inserted in my arse did."  
  
The remote dropped from John's lifeless fingers.  
  
Sherlock bent to pick it up and replaced it in John's hand with a stern look. "Don't break it, John; I dread returning to that store to buy another."  
  
"It's a- a what now?" John asked hazily. "I- I don't think I quite follow. What did you just say?"  
  
Sherlock leveled a disappointed stare, but couldn't maintain it for long as his mouth curled into an irresistible smile. "It took some doing, but I found a wireless bullet- you do know what that is, don't you? Yes?"  
  
John nodded dumbly.  
  
"Good. I found one that has a remote-controlled vibrator built in. You shall have the remote safely tucked in your pocket all evening while we're out."  
  
John was beginning to see, and he wasn't sure what his stomach was doing anymore and his palms were sweating. "Sherlock- No. Oh god no. No, you can't-,"  
  
"It's perfectly safe." Sherlock was shifting from one foot to the other in excitement now.  
  
 _Or discomfort? Oh- god it's still on!_  
  
John hastily mashed the down button until he saw a bright red 0. "No, this is- Why- How…? God, I can't speak."  
  
Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back with a purely innocent expression. "This is… what? As to why _,_ well, I shan't be bored this evening. As to how it was a fairly simple, if somewhat slow, process accomplished with an inordinate amount of lube. And you seem to be speaking just fine, though incoherently." His head tilted slightly. "Do you not approve?"  
  
"You're mental!"  
  
Sherlock shrugged. "So are you."  
  
"I'm not the one standing here with- with- God _,_ Sherlock, why?"  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically before stepping closer, a predatory smile spreading on his face as he slid his hands slowly down John's chest. "I'll spell it out for you, then-,"  
  
"I wish you would!"  
  
Sherlock leaned in, whispering in John's ear. "The entire night I'll be sitting beside you, with this toy pressed against my prostate, and only you can control how pleasurable it is for me. As I said, it's completely safe, and also non-detectable. As long as you don't go past four, that is."  
  
"But-," John started desperately, then bit back a moan as Sherlock grinded against him, his half-hardened erection pressing into his thigh.  
  
"You enjoyed entertaining the idea of being in control of me last night. And tonight you'll control me for every single minute we're outside our door. You can punish or reward me as you see fit, and when we finally return home…"  Sherlock paused, nibbling on his earlobe, and John melted _._ "I'm going to pin you to the wall, force you to your knees and fuck your delicious mouth."  
  
" _Oh god._ " John's head was swimming; he gripped Sherlock's shoulders to steady himself.  
  
"Now do you understand?" Sherlock said breathlessly, then gave a muffled laugh as John surged upward for a fierce kiss. Sherlock gripped his wrist and pulled his hand down without breaking the embrace, guiding his fingers over his arse and pressing lightly on a small bit of resistance.  
  
John's pants were suddenly very, very tight. He winced as Sherlock broke the kiss with a smug smile.  
  
"You're mental, Sherlock. You've gone 'round the bend and there's no turning back for you. One-way street."  
  
A hint of stormy confusion crossed Sherlock's eyes. "So I ask again; do you approve?"  
  
John ran a hand over his face, peeking up at Sherlock as he pressed the remote up to three. Sherlock's eyes hooded immediately, a small gasp escaping him.  
  
"I'll take that as a yes."  
  
"You're insane," John huffed in amusement. "I just- Nothing's simple with you, is it?"  
  
"Of course not. Simple's boring _,_ tedious, dull."  
  
"And you want to sit there with a stiffy for an hour or two?" John frowned slightly. "That will be painful _,_ Sherlock. Trust me, I know."  
  
"Nothing dangerous, and nothing I can't handle." Sherlock arched a brow at him. "Are you game?"  
  
John sighed heavily, stepping around him as he slipped the remote into his pocket. "Come along, you idiot."  
  
Sherlock bounced happily after him, and John pressed the remote up one level. Sherlock's eyes sparked with excitement.  
  
"Positive reinforcement. You learn quick, Doctor Watson."  
  
"You're a loony, but god help me, you're _my_ loony." John grinned up at him. "This is going to be fun."  
  
"Exactly!"


	29. Experimenting With Sherlock (Chap 7)

"Oi. _Oi,_ back there! We're here."  
  
John gasped as Sherlock pulled away, dragging him to sit upright in the backseat. He'd been buried under Sherlock's kisses for most of the ride, and although his shoulder protested at the odd angle, John couldn't be happier. He pulled his sweater straight as Sherlock paid the cabbie, then stumbled out the door.  
  
Sherlock twined his fingers through John's as they stepped off the curb and toward the pub, and John squeezed them affectionately. There was a major height difference between them, but that didn't seem to affect holding hands together; it was very comfortable.  
  
"Wait, wait. Your coat's all crooked and your hair's standing on end." John laughed and shoved Sherlock to the side of the door, pulling roughly on his scarf. "You look properly snogged, that's what."  
  
Sherlock grinned, and John smiled back. "So do you. Your hair is also mussed, your lips are swollen and your face is flushed."  
  
"Oh?" John peeked in the window, slapping at his spiked hair. "Oh well. It'll have to do. Come on."  
  
"I'll run to the toilet and meet you in a moment." Sherlock touched John's arm briefly before veering off once they stepped inside.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"Yes, doctor," Sherlock said dryly, and John waved irritably at him.  
  
He weaved past the rounded tables and patrons, making for a long, low booth in the back. Several men were already sitting there, and one shot to his feet and extended a hand, shaking John's vigorously.  
  
"Lyndon, good to see you!"  
  
"You too Jonny! Come on, sit, haven't seen you in several months." The lanky man grinned and pushed at the man he'd been sitting by, making room around the half-circle. "Georgie isn't coming, sad to say."  
  
"Well, there will be room for one more then?" John bit his lip as he slid into the booth. "I've brought a date, see."  
  
There was a collection of appreciative 'oooh's and a whistle, and John shook his head and laughed.  
  
"Can't wait to see. You always snag the gorgeous ones, Jonny!" the redhead, Ralph, piped up, raising a half-empty mug of beer.  
  
"Not sure how _,_ " the third man muttered with a wry grin. "With your brutish face and troll feet and all."  
  
"Shove off, Stan," John said good-naturedly. He took a deep breath, then leveled a stare at them each. "Picked me up a gorgeous one, yeah. He's not really… social so go easy on him, 'kay?"  
  
The table was silent as each man froze, staring wide-eyed at John for several long seconds.  
  
" _'He'?_ " Lyndon said in a half-choked voice.  
  
"Yeah." John released a held breath, then grinned cheekily. "'Least, he was this morning when I checked."  
  
" _Cor blimey,_ Jonny, you gone and jumped the fence then?" Stan said, looking mystified. "Never figured you would."  
  
John shrugged, glancing down at his hands folded in his lap. It felt all kinds of wrong to declare himself gay- it wasn't about gender, it wasn't about what other people thought; it was just _Sherlock._ He didn't know how to go about explaining that, though, and honestly wasn't sure if he would if he could've.  
  
A dark coat moved into his vision and he glanced up in relief, standing to place an arm possessively around Sherlock's waist. "Sherlock, these are my old rugby mates." He smiled up at Sherlock's placid expression. "Lyndon, Ralph, Stan. Mates, this is Sherlock. My date."  
  
" _Date._ " Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I have negative connotations to that term. I remember you so subtly implying we weren't on a date a year ago and many times hence."  
  
"That was then, this is now." John tugged him down into the booth beside him.  
  
"I've opened a tab, gentleman," Sherlock continued calmly. "Please, order what you wish."  
  
"Well, well; a looker and generous!" Ralph said, chuckling nervously. "Got yourself a good one, Jonny."  
  
" _We can't afford that!_ " John hissed, turning in his seat and pulling on Sherlock's sleeve urgently.  
  
"Perhaps not; but Mycroft certainly can," Sherlock whispered with a devilish grin.  
  
John gave an evil chuckle and nudged the up arrow on the remote in his pocket once- it had been shut off during the ride to the pub. Sherlock quieted immediately, but smiled slyly at him, shifting closer.  
  
"Jonny…"  
  
"Yeah?" John swiveled back to Lyndon. "What's up?"  
  
"…You just come out to us then?"  
  
"I guess." John smiled wryly. "Bit more complicated than that, but-,"  
  
"John's main attraction to me is mental and emotional, not physical," Sherlock interjected smoothly. "If you have to give it a social label, our relationship would be demisexual, rather than purely homosexual."  
  
"What and what?" John snapped his head back to frown at Sherlock, who gave them a long-suffering roll of his eyes.  
  
"As I just said, it's based upon emotional attachment, not physical. The closest idiom for our relationship I've found is demisexuality- which can be seen as a subset of asexuality, and I have to add demisexuality is still not widely accepted as a sexual orientation. I've theorized John has felt social pressure to only identify himself as heterosexual, but when left to his own devices falls in love after establishing a close emotional attachment, rather than the usual sexual preference for physical attributes." A slow smile curled Sherlock's mouth. "Though he seems to readily appreciate my-,"  
  
"Stop, please _,_  that's enough," John begged, thumbing the up button several times. He was rewarded with Sherlock gritting his teeth and shaking once where he sat. "We're just here for drinks and a few laughs, not in-depth psycho-analysis of John Watson, thank you very much."  
  
"…I was just answering Lyndon's question," Sherlock said with a gentle pout, and John elbowed him roughly.  
  
"He's right, you know," Stan said quietly, glancing up warily from his pint of beer. "Psychology is a bit of a hobby of mine. He's spot on, if what he says is true."  
  
"Of course it is," Sherlock snapped defensively, then bit his lip when John nudged his thigh. "But- Ah. Your opinion is acceptable."  
  
" _Aaand_ that's about as polite as he gets," John said with a laugh. "So I'll just order us another round and-,"  
  
"And you must spend the evening telling me every entertaining story about John that you know," Sherlock finished with a sly grin.  
  
Unfortunately for John, that's exactly what his friends did. Every faceplant in the rugby field, every girl who had slapped him, every walk of shame following a drunken evening- everything laughable about John's life when he was younger was exposed and picked over for Sherlock to grin at and store for blackmail. It didn't help that his mates went about the request with great gusto, their bellies full of alcohol and their voices raised in glee as they retold the most embarrassing stories they could think of.  
  
Even John using the remote didn't dissuade Sherlock from prompting them with specific and detailed questions, though it did get Sherlock's hand to sneak under the table and grip his hardening prick through his pants with increasing urgency. John withstood an hour of this back and forth teasing before he set his mug down with a forceful _thunk,_ signaling the end of the conversation.  
  
"I think we should be heading on," John declared, sharing a secretive smile with Sherlock.  
  
"Already? It's not half past ten. C'mon, Jonny, we need'ya to referee darts," Stan slurred. "Lyndon cheats _,_ you know it!"  
  
"Got to be up early- really early- for the train," John groaned, rubbing his reddened face with both hands. "It's the Watson family Christmas dinner tomorrow, and I've been summoned."  
  
"Oh- Oh! Right." Lyndon leaned forward, peeking around John. "Do you dare to go with him, Mr. Holmes?"  
  
Sherlock nodded gravely. "Indeed I dare."  
  
"Bless you," Stan said quietly. "We've heard such horror stories. You must come back next month and tell us all about it!"  
  
Sherlock looked taken aback by the casual request, and John sighed happily as he slid his arm through Sherlock's.  
  
"Of course he will- if we both survive intact, that is."  
  
"Here's to hoping you do." Ralph raised his nearly empty glass. "Safe trip and all that."  
  
John barely had time to say a round of goodbyes and promises to show next month before Sherlock was pulling him away through the pub and out into the ankle-deep snow. John thrust his hands into his pockets, pressing the up button once. Then twice.  
  
"What's the rush, then, Sherlock?" he grinned when Sherlock gasped and gripped his arm to keep from stumbling.  
  
"Taxi!"  
  
"We could walk home," John suggested wickedly. "It's brisk out; good for the lungs."  
  
Sherlock glared, waving his arm frantically at the traffic.  
  
"Oh, go on then," John continued impishly. "I know you get cold _;_ I'll walk home myself the long way-,"  
  
He gasped when Sherlock grabbed his shoulders, yanking him close and forcing a brutal, claiming kiss. Sherlock's erection was impossibly hard, pressing desperately against John's belly as he bent him back under the power of the embrace. John had to grip at Sherlock's coat to keep from falling, the friction causing them both to moan needily.  
  
Sherlock bit at John's lower lip, slowly dragging it through his teeth before leaning back.  
  
"You're coming home with me."  
  
John thumbed the button again, staring in fascination when he heard Sherlock actually whimper. "Am I?"  
  
Sherlock darted forward, nibbling at John's ear before whispering huskily, "I have been aching for you all evening, imagining your warm tongue and greedy hands and your hungry stare.  You've only two choices, doctor- that dark alleyway or the comfort of our flat- but I _will_ have your mouth on me."  
  
"Flat," John panted, running his fingers up the muscular neck to tangle in the dark curls. "Now _._ "  
  
Sherlock's eyes gleamed maniacally as he finally managed to flag an empty cab. "Good choice- though I doubt we'll make it up the stairs."  
  
"I- I hope Mrs. Hudson's asleep," John said, and they shared a guilty laugh as they tumbled into the cab.


	30. Experimenting With Sherlock (Chap 8)

As predicted, they barely made it inside the flat before their greedy hands were everywhere indecent. But then-

"No."  
  
Sherlock froze, the look of surprise on his face prompting a round of evil giggles from John. "No…?"  
  
John fisted his hands in the expensive jacket, pinning Sherlock against the wall with his body. "Let's see how well you do when I change your plans. After humiliating me in front of my mates all evening, I'm not going to just stand here." One hand trailed down, curving around Sherlock's backside before his fingers sought the small bit of resistance lodged inside and pressed _._  
  
Sherlock's head slammed into the wall with a gasp.  
  
"Let's see how you like me touching you everywhere except where you really…" John slid his other hand into the waist of Sherlock's trousers, raking his nails down his bare thigh, "…really… really need it."  
  
John frowned when Sherlock pushed him away, but chuckled a second later when a vice grip was secured around his wrist and dragged them both up the stairs. "I thought we wouldn't make it-,"  
  
"Shut up," Sherlock snapped with a wicked smile. "I don't want you distracted thinking we might be walked in on. I want you completely focused on myself." He shoved John in the bedroom and kicked the door shut just before he began tearing his clothes off hastily.  
  
"Sherlock- Be careful with those, I really like that shirt on you," John laughed as he wiggled out of his sweater. "I love how tight it is."  
  
Sherlock held up the rich violet shirt, pondering it for a few seconds before tossing it aside. "True, excellent silk, I greatly enjoy how it feels against my skin."  
  
"Looks better on the floor," John grinned.  
  
"So does yours," Sherlock half-moaned, unzipping John's trousers and dragging them down. John stepped out of the puddle of clothes, pressing their bodies together and forcing Sherlock to step back until he bumped into the wall.  
  
"So where's Sherlock's spots that make him moan and melt and all sorts of wonderful reactions?" John breathed against his ear.  
  
" _Johnnn._ " Sherlock sighed his name wantonly, sparking a wave of lust to knot between his legs. "I- I'm not sure-  _oh- there._ "  
  
"Here?" John nuzzled the crook of his neck before biting lazily at the skin. Sherlock gripped at his waist and grinded his prick against John's.  
  
"More _ohh_ more b-biting yes John very good _Johnnnn~_ "  
  
John happily obeyed, biting and nibbling his way slowly down Sherlock's body over the next half-hour. His prick was hard and his balls ached, but it was worth it as Sherlock jumped and moaned under his teeth and hands. It was more difficult than John would've thought to make good on his threat- Sherlock was sensitive _everywhere,_ each new lick and bite earning enthusiastic praise, and John realised something just as he trailed his tongue down the inside of Sherlock's thigh.  
  
Sherlock was extremely vocal.  
  
John hadn't given it too much thought before; they were new lovers, everything was exciting- and very new for Sherlock- but shouldn't that have worn off a bit? Sherlock was, if anything, louder than before as he pulled at John's hair and swayed his hips for attention and moaned so shamelessly it made John himself blush.  
  
He brought his head up, eyes tracing the reddened marks he'd left across the pale body and Sherlock shivered.  
  
"John when you look at me like that I… I…"  Sherlock's brow furrowed, mouth working to form soundless words.  
  
"Tell me later," John murmured, one hand sliding up to press on the toy again- he'd had the foresight to leave his trousers nearby so he could fetch the remote. "Just keep talking; god _,_ Sherlock, I could get off on your voice _._ "  
  
"We sh-should test that sometime," Sherlock grinned maliciously. "And I by you looking me over. Your eyes, John, I feel… valuable. Precious? Something like that."  
  
"And how do you feel when I do this?" John dipped his head, his tongue flattening to guide one rounded globe of flesh into his mouth.  
  
That earned him an unintelligible lustful cry, which trailed into a series of gasps of his name as he lightly massaged it with his tongue. He drowned in the smooth baritone for a few moments, staring up to watch the myriad of enraptured expressions that crossed the angular face.  
  
He'd planned on attempting to work his way down Sherlock's legs- he was curious to see what noises Sherlock would make when he bit the inside of his leg- but a hand fisted in his short hair and tugged.  _Hard._  
  
And John gasped and decided very quickly he liked that far too much.  
  
"John."  
  
"Yes?" John panted eagerly.  
  
"I'm enforcing my plans."  
  
John didn't have time to ask; the long slender hands curled around his head and guided him in, pressing the swollen prick against his lips. Huffing in amusement, John shot a quick appreciative glance upwards before he willingly opened his mouth and swallowed as much of the length as he could in one go.  
  
This time Sherlock didn't degenerate into mindless babble, but the crisp, hungry commands were just as wonderful.  
  
"More tongue underneath- there, _there_ John _yessss~_ Now pull back. Mouth the head, suck harder. Harder _Johnnnn ohhh_ how do you _do_ that?"  
  
John hummed in response, and Sherlock's hips came off the wall as he thrust shallowly.  
  
" _Yes more of that,_ " Sherlock hissed, biting his lip as he stared down with gleaming eyes. "T-Tilt your head a few degrees to the left- your _other_ left _-_ yes now harder, more John _more~_ "  
  
Sherlock's words were slurring together, and predictably his body was tensing. John reveled in the fact that he knew another verbal clue to how close Sherlock was; then he ducked his head, flattened his tongue and pressed the delicious shaft in, suckling desperately. A second later he realized his mistake when his throat convulsed, his gag reflex rejecting the intruder.  
  
Another tug on his hair, and he whimpered as his head was pulled back and away from the glistening prick.  
  
"John, don't _._ " Sherlock was speaking through a clamped jaw. "Don't hurt yourself."  
  
"Didn't hurt!" John protested. "Honest."  
  
"Gentler," Sherlock snapped, then pulled him forward again and John happily swallowed him again. Thumbs were pressed to his cheekbones, a failsafe to keep him back, and John's stubbornness flared. Dammit, if he wanted to gag on Sherlock's prick, he'd do it.  
  
Sherlock was close again, his words tumbling into each other, a repetition of _JohnyesJohnyesJohn~!_ He gripped Sherlock's hands, moving them to the back of his head and indicating he should push, shove, own _._   Sherlock was too far gone to notice, teetering on the edge, and he pawed desperately at the short hair.  
  
 _That's right, Sherlock, use me._  
  
John knew the point of no return now; he pushed past it, grinning as he shook and choked, and Sherlock gasped a warning just as salty warmth flooded his mouth. Instead of swallowing immediately like he had before, John let the stickiness seep around his tongue, relishing in the sweet bitterness first.  
  
"John… you… _Fuck._ " Sherlock collapsed against the wall, sliding down slowly. John's eyes widened at the rare curse, letting the softening length leave his mouth with a wet _pop_ as he guided Sherlock to sit.  
  
"That- I told you-," Sherlock panted, glaring the rest of the sentence, which John ignored.  
  
"And I never do anything I don't want to do, Sherlock," John replied merrily. "I'm no different from you in that regard."  
  
"But-,"  
  
"So I won't hear of-,"  
  
"John." Sherlock's hand found their way into John's hair again, pulling hard enough to yank his head back. "But _,_ I will say, watching you choke on my prick is the most erotic situation I've never imagined."  
  
John grinned proudly, then grimaced and gingerly touched his jaw. "Oh."  
  
"Yes?" Sherlock's eyes clouded with worry immediately, and John waved dismissively.  
  
"Just a bit sore. Need to work up to it, I think. Which means…"  
  
"Much more practise?" Sherlock huffed a laugh, then shook his head. "Make a reminder; ensure my orgasm last, as I become immensely fatigued afterwards."  
  
"Will do," John chuckled. "Come, up to the bed."  
  
"But- Oh, alright." Sherlock linked his arms around his neck, eyes hooded tiredly but still sparking with interest. "Lay me on my back."  
  
John smiled to himself as he helped them up to their feet and stumbled the few steps to the bed. Sherlock fell on his back, shimmying just enough so his legs didn't hang over the edge.  
  
"Straddle my waist."  
  
John arched a brow but did as he said, stretching up to grab one of the pillows and cradle Sherlock's head against it. He sighed in relief when he felt a warm hand slip around his prick and pull gently.  
  
"Hmm, this is actually advantageous," Sherlock said distractedly. "John, I'm… going to try something. Do you want to be surprised or know ahead of time?"  
  
"Always full of surprises," John murmured. "And I take back what I said. I've been enjoying your surprises of late."  
  
"Good, good. Just stay here, exactly where you are." Sherlock shifted, reaching down and past John's leg and wiggling slightly.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Don't need the toy any longer," Sherlock chuckled. "Now, as I said, stay still and let me touch you. Relax." His eyes flickered up, catching John's gaze as he laid back again. "Now I understand why you asked if I trusted you before. It seemed a silly question at the ti-,"  
  
"Sherlock, whatever you're planning, do it," John begged. "Please."  
  
"Ohh." Sherlock's sly smile knotted John's stomach. "I do so like hearing you say that. Could be addictive."  
  
"Then give me a reason to say it," John returned with a challenging grin.  
  
"You may regret your taunt, but we'll see." Sherlock's hand squeezed and tugged, thumb tracing lovingly over the head, coated immediately in the pearly drops. John closed his eyes, rocking his hips into the ring of tight grip, lost in the quickly piling sensations before-  
  
John's eyes flew open as a finger pressed lightly at his entrance. "Ah-!"  
  
All movement stopped, and John shook his head. "No, no. Go on."  
  
A heartbeat of silence, then both hands resumed. "Surprised?"  
  
"Quite. Go on, Sherlock."  
  
"Relax, then. Push against me." Sherlock smirked up at him. "You were so far gone a moment ago I completely lubed my fingers without you realising. It won't hurt; I've filed my nails."  
  
"Less details, more of this," John moaned. "I've- I've never-,"  
  
"You've never tried any form of anal play?"  
  
John barked a laugh. "No!"  
  
"Interesting. Ignore the initial sensation as my finger breaches; press against it to reduce it."  
  
It was much less frightening and a lot more intimate than John had imagined. Sherlock patiently inched his finger inside, his stroking just fast enough to keep John on edge but not crash over it.  
  
"Sherlock…" John bit his lip; once the finger had passed a ring of muscle it was feeling much better.  
  
"Beg me."  
  
John tilted his head back, staring down smugly. "Just like that? You can't convince me to beg just by-,"  
  
The finger crooked, pressing against something, and John cried out as pleasure sparked in his mind.  
  
" _God! Sherlock!_ What-,"  
  
"Prostate." Sherlock's eyes narrowed with a wide grin. "Keep up, doctor."  
  
" _My god!_ "  
  
"I rather imagine at this moment I am. Now…" Sherlock's hands stilled, the one on his prick tightening the grip at the base. "Beg me for release."  
  
John jutted his chin defiantly. "Not yet."  
  
"Excellent."  
  
The finger pressed in again, and John shuddered as another wave of exquisite sensation flowed through him. His erection ached, his balls sitting tight and ready against his body, but the damnable grip was still there, stifling his orgasm.  
  
And John fully saw the game Sherlock intended to play, and he groaned in despair.  
  
"Sh… Sherlock…"  
  
Sherlock curled the finger again, chuckling when John's hips thrust in vain. "Yes, John?"  
  
" _P-Please!_ "  
  
Sherlock's eyes hardened maniacally. "More."  
  
"Yes, more! _Please,_ Sherlock, you're killing me!"  
  
"John, look at me."  
  
John's eyes snapped open obediently.  
  
"Keep looking at me like that." Sherlock sighed happily. "One more time."  
  
"You gorgeous bastard," John moaned. "Sherlock- Let me- I _need_ you. Please _._ "  
  
A flicker of surprise crossed Sherlock's face but his hands complied; his grip moved over the slick shaft again rapidly, his finger pressed, and pleasurable fire shot through John's body. His back arched, head thrown back with a sharp cry of Sherlock's name as he painted the pale body with paler white.  
  
It was several hazy moments later that John realised he had collapsed atop Sherlock, his heart still racing and breathing still ragged. Sherlock was nuzzling the curve of his neck, muttering something he couldn't quite make out. He settled more comfortably against him, tilting his head just enough to press his lips against what skin he could reach.  
  
"Sherlock, that was beyond words. I have none," John sighed. "But I want you to know I wish I had some."  
  
"As you've said, my good doctor," Sherlock whispered, "I don't need them. Now rest."  
  
John nodded, too tired and spent to think beyond obeying. He fell asleep to Sherlock murmuring a lilting something in French by his ear.


	31. Confronting With Sherlock (Chap 1)

A whispered rustle on the sheet.  
  
Before he could think, John's mind reacted, body running through trained responses.  
  
 _Upright angle of intruder – highly dangerous.  
Weapon likely – protect throat.  
Elbow jab – roll to the right.  
Visual confirmation – unarmed.  
Assume defensive position by-_  
  
John froze halfway off the bed, breathing heavily as he blinked, dark shapes swimming into view. It took a few seconds of concentrated effort to tamper down the line of instinct.  
  
Then he pitched forward toward the moaning figure.  
  
"Sherlock I'm so sorry _,_ I'm not usually a twitchy sleeper- well, not nowadays- are you okay?"  
  
"P-Perfectly fine," Sherlock coughed hoarsely, his lop-sided smile thoroughly unconvincing.  
  
"Where'd I hit you? Oh god, are you alright? You sound terrible." John patted him down quickly, searching for an obvious wound.  
  
"Neck," Sherlock wheezed, then waved away John's searching fingers. "At about… the thyroid cartilage. Fine. I'll be fine _._ "  
  
"I'm so-,"  
  
"Say you're… sorry once more and… I'll sing that annoying… pop song you hate… all the way on the train."  
  
"You can swallow?"  
  
Sherlock paused, then nodded.  
  
"Good." John curled a hand around Sherlock's, squinting in the low light. Sherlock was dressed save for his shoes, and he was still wearing nothing from passing out earlier. He glanced back up to catch Sherlock's mischievous gaze, and they both burst out laughing together.  
  
By the time they calmed, Sherlock was breathing easier.  
  
"I haven't done that for ages," John said, shaking his head. "At least I'm wide awake. You did sleep, yeah?"  
  
Sherlock looked aghast. "No! Well, I didn't mean to, but my body betrayed me and I slept for a few hours. There's entirely too much data to review, categorise and store properly, and I had only managed to sift through half of it before I rose to pack and get dressed."  
  
"Pack. Oh no _._ " John sighed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "I've got to pack and-,"  
  
"-Which I've already accomplished for you. Why do you lock your door?" Sherlock tilted his head. "It's an easy one to pick. Old-fashioned."  
  
John turned to glare at the implication before shoving himself to his feet. "Well, I need a change of-,"  
  
"Clothes." Sherlock picked up a lump and tossed them to him. "You'll think of food next- there's a slice of toast cooling for you in the kitchen. Next, money for the train which I've placed in the innermost pocket of your suitcase, which is just there by the door. I've called for a cab, which will be here in…" Sherlock fell across the bed and tilted the small clock toward him. "About twenty minutes, which gives you time for a quick shower and shave if you decide."  
  
Sherlock sat up with a proud smile, and John had the strange urge to rub his head.  
  
"Yes, well, I think I'll do that then," John said sleepily; the adrenaline was already fading. "Thank you, Sherlock, I didn't even think before nodding off-,"  
  
"Oh, you did plenty of thinking, just not of this variety," Sherlock grinned as he bounced off the bed. "Off you go then. No time to waste."  
  
"I hate mornings," John muttered as he stumbled toward the door. "Bloody hate them. Vicious things. Sneak up on you when you least expect them. Should be outlawed."  
  
"…I'll have Lestrade get on that straight away." Sherlock tilted John's shoulders to guide him into the bathroom. "Hurry now."  
  
It wasn't exactly hurrying _,_ but he did his best. Ten minutes later he emerged, yawning and weaving slightly as he padded into the kitchen. He paused, staring down at the slightly burnt piece of bread.  
  
"Why are you grinning so strangely at your breakfast?"  
  
John lifted the toast and bit into it vigorously. "I seem to remember not appreciating the last time you made me toast. Thank you, it's a nice treat."  
  
Sherlock's gaze warmed as he stepped closer. "It never entered the vicinity of the kitchen table, I assure you."  
  
"To be honest, I wouldn't care at the moment. All I care about is you did it for me."  
  
Sherlock bent down, pressing a light kiss to his wrinkled forehead. "That's the proper response I was looking for."  
  
"Bugger off," John chuckled. "We got everything?"  
  
Sherlock sniffed. "Of course. And your neck is still damp. Why don't you properly towel off after your showers? It's mystifying. Can't you _feel_ it?"  
  
"What?" John pawed at his neck, hand coming away wet. "Oh. Haha _,_ not like I care."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes disdainfully. "You'll care when you step out in the cold."  
  
John snorted, cramming the last half of the toast into his mouth. He shouldered his bag and made it halfway down the stairs before pausing mid-step as an idea struck him.  
  
"John?"  
  
"Just a second." John dropped the bag and jogged up the next flight of stairs, up into his room. He plucked a small object from the bedside table and ran back down. "Now I'm ready."  
  
"Cab's here. Oh, and…"  
  
John's brows rose in surprise as Sherlock leaned in, stealing a gentle kiss. "Good morning, John."  
  
"Now it is, yeah," John grinned sleepily.  
  
John managed to wake more fully on the drive to the station, helped by Sherlock's quiet stares and the possessive grip on his hand. He bought the tickets and led Sherlock onto the train, settling into a small cabin they took over as their own. John huffed in amusement when Sherlock barred the door with their duffels.  
  
"Oh- Oh I need to text Harry," John muttered, leaning forward to rifle through his bag, but Sherlock waved a hand.  
  
"We'll have transport waiting for us," Sherlock sighed. "Arranged by my brother."  
  
"Mycroft?" John sat up in surprise. "Mycroft? Why? How did he-,"  
  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I mentioned our holiday, and this is a small token of his appreciation to you. So he said."  
  
"To me?" John rolled his eyes. "Or does he simply wish to keep tabs on us?"  
  
"He does that anyway. Unfortunately it seems to be an inescapable fact." Sherlock slid down onto his side, curling awkwardly on the small booth. "I had not considered how that would affect a relationship. Do you think it will?"  
  
"If it hasn't before now…" John shrugged. "No, Sherlock, I don't. Not unless he tries to get in the way of us." He smiled grimly. "Then he and I will have a problem."  
  
Sherlock grinned wickedly. "Now that I'd like to see. Always nice when people other than myself call him out."  
  
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that." John hid a yawn as he packed his jacket in the corner and settled against it. "But I wouldn't mind it if it did. So what's this transport, then? Some escort service like he kidnaps me with?"  
  
"No _._ " Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "This is our holiday, and I made it perfectly clear neither he nor his minions will ruin it."  
  
"No, that's my parent's job," John chuckled humourlessly. "Probably should warn you 'bout my mum. She's a real charmer to strangers- you wouldn't believe she's a manipulator just by talking to her."  
  
"Mm. Indicative of several different mental illnesses."  
  
"Just-," John sighed, giving a pleading look. "Don't try to analyze her while we're there. Or my dad. Or- Well, anybody if you can. At least, don't say anything. Please. For me."  
  
"I can't not internalize what I observe, but I will…" Sherlock trailed off, biting his lip, and John's stomach clenched in dread.  
  
"Please _,_ Sherlock. It's going to be bad enough with her subtle insults and dad and Harry and the others just sitting there letting it happen-,"  
  
"But I won't." Sherlock rolled off the booth and knelt beside him, resting his head in John's lap. "I won't hear ill of you, John. Not from anyone."  
  
John threaded his fingers through the mop of dark curls, smiling when Sherlock gave a soft moan of appreciation. "I can't say no to that. I probably should, but-,"  
  
"I'm worried, John."  
  
"About?"  
  
Sherlock tilted his head, the liquid eyes dark with concern. "That no one's ever defended you in your family unit, including yourself."  
  
A sharp ache unwound in John's chest, catching his breath. He swallowed thickly, closing his eyes and nodding once before he leaned back, the pain too sudden and raw to acknowledge further. Moments later the rocking of the train and Sherlock's hand smoothing down his thigh lulled him to sleep.


	32. Confronting With Sherlock (Chap 2)

A voice sounded overhead, calling the next station's name; it broke through John's uneasy sleep, dissipating an odd dream that he didn't remember. His eyes fluttered open as he stretched; a soft grunt of pain escaped him as his aching shoulder reminded him that he was no longer in his twenties and his back demanded a proper bed for proper sleeping, thank you very much.  
  
He sat up and rubbed at his shoulder, distracted by how abnormally comfortable Sherlock looked across from him. Sherlock could twist and contract his long angular body into the oddest spaces, and today was no exception. He fit nicely on the small booth somehow, though one arm had escaped confinement and was draped over the side, hand swaying gently with the movement of the train.  
  
John slid off his seat and settled on the floor, staring up in wonder at the peacefully squashed face. A sleeping Sherlock was a rare enough sight, but John saw this relaxed expression even less. Though he had to admit, he'd seen it much more often as of late.  
  
Gently he supported the dangling hand with one of his, eyes trailing greedily up the long, pale fingers, to the smooth bumps of knuckles, along the veined strings of tendon that led up to the delicately curved wrist. Every part of Sherlock was an artwork in and of itself.  
  
On an impulse he leaned forward, nosing the back of his hand affectionately, then frowned to himself. It wasn't enough. Not close enough. Not enough, full stop _._  
  
But then, with Sherlock would enough ever be enough? John fervently hoped not.  
  
With a guilty smile he tilted the forefinger up, sliding his lips down the digit before licking the tip once, twice- then pulled it into his mouth. This finger, which was as clever and smart as the man himself- this was his now, claimed by his mouth and tongue and the slight scrape of his teeth.  
  
He needed to find time to claim Sherlock's entire body like this someday.  
  
Sherlock moaned quietly, and John's smile widened as he laved the underside with his tongue. Sherlock's brow furrowed as his eyes blinked open, then shot up his forehead in realisation. He watched in fascination as John sucked and licked a second finger into his mouth to join the first.  
  
"I've never woken to such an erotic sight." Sherlock's voice was husky with sleep and lust. "Once you've finished there- no rush- you should suck on my prick."  
  
John chuckled, tilting his head back and letting the fingers slide out with a deliciously wet noise. "Not here _,_ Sherlock."  
  
"It's private enough."  
  
"No!" John's gaze swept down the twisted body and snorted. "Though I want to. Feel like a teenager again."  
  
" _Johnnnn._ "  
  
The voice was deep and rich now, with the edge of roughness that sparked a coil of desire in his belly. "Don't you use that tone on me. It's all sorts of dangerous."  
  
Sherlock smirked lazily. "Exactly."  
  
John huffed a laugh and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. "I draw a line at giving head on a train with a non-locking door."  
  
Sherlock licked his lips slowly. "What about receiving, then?"  
  
" _No!_ " John laughed again, shoving Sherlock back into the cushion, who was chuckling himself. "It's just the train that's the issue. I- Oh. _Ohh._ " His eyes lit as an idea ran across his mind, and Sherlock leaned in eagerly.  
  
"What? I like this look in your eye."  
  
"You'll see in a bit. No _,_ later," John added when Sherlock began protesting immediately. "Later. You can be patient."  
  
"No I can't _,_ " Sherlock fumed playfully. "It's not in my genetic coding. I was born to be impatient."  
  
"I can believe it." John laid Sherlock's hand on his shoulder, rolling his fingers to dry them.  
  
"Have you ever done that?" Sherlock asked curiously, nodding toward his hand. "It was a delightful sensation, and I request more of it in the future."  
  
"Absolutely," John grinned. "And no, actually, I've never thought of doing that myself. Had someone do it to me but it was… awkward. I didn't like it much."  
  
"Fascinating." Sherlock pulled his hand back, looking it over in awe. "I've often wondered- when I would think about sex in my younger years- why people didn't use their mouths in a wider variety of ways, but in most experiences they never did."  
  
"What?" John paused, letting the announcer talk over him for a second. "We're almost there. But what do you mean by 'experiences'? I thought…"  
  
Sherlock shook his head rapidly as he sat up. "I did extensive and exhaustive sexual research in my spare time at university, but never personally participated in the act. There were a much larger range of subjects than even I would've guessed- apparently voyeurism is more common in that age range than you'd think."  
  
"Wait." John pushed himself up to sit on the seat, staring wide-eyed at his friend. "You mean to say you watched people have sex?"  
  
"Quite frequently."  
  
"…And they knew you were-,"  
  
"Of course. It allowed me to observe freely and ask questions."  
  
John shifted uncomfortably. "And you never wanted to join in?"  
  
"Initially I did, purely for the collection of data itself," Sherlock replied casually. "But I wanted to conduct a sizable amount of research before compromising my ability to remain completely detached. By the time I felt I could've safely participated, I felt no desire to."  
  
"None at all?" John glanced Sherlock over dubiously, fresh memories of Sherlock writhing, fisting the sheets, his entire body shaking with release. "S-Surely you-,"  
  
"My body very rarely responded favourably to the sights and sounds of sex," Sherlock continued blithely. "And when it did, it was only because my body was still settling into averaging out my hormones, and at times they ran high. A physical response only; I did not mentally or emotionally desire any of the persons nor wish for them to desire me. Which was disconcerting when they hounded me to participate repeatedly."  
  
The train pulled to a stop, the cabin lurching once. They gathered their bags and exited; Sherlock's arm firmly wrapped around John's to tug him through the early morning crowd.  
  
"So…" John bit his lip as he glanced up. "You really never have wanted anyone before now? I mean, it's not that you just never did anything, you didn't find anyone you wanted?"  
  
"No one." Sherlock shrugged, giving him a half-smile. "I imagine that sounds ludicrous to you. It did to my university mates. It became extremely tiresome to explain myself to the subjects Seb found for me."  
  
"Seb?" John cocked his head, frowning. "Wait, Sebastian? The bank manager?"  
  
"Yes. We were roommates at university. He arranged my voyeuristic tests with considerable skill, when he wasn't one of the subjects himself."  
  
"You watched him?" John's frown dug into a deep scowl. "Watched him have sex with- You putting me on?"  
  
"Not at all." Sherlock sounded puzzled. "Is that difficult for you to believe? If so, why?"  
  
"No it's not _,_ and that's the problem," John replied, gritting his teeth. "I knew I didn't like that man."  
  
"He may not be of strong moral fibre but he's decent enough-,"  
  
"Didn't like how he looked at you."  
  
Sherlock halted, pulling them to the side against a wall. "You've gone rigid and your tone is angry. I'm confused. Explain?"  
  
"I don't like him. That's it."  
  
Sherlock studied him for a few more seconds, then snapped his fingers. "You're jealous."  
  
John sighed heavily, torn between childish shame and a strong surge of possessiveness. "I- There's nothing to be jealous of, is there? But I don't like him, and that's that. Okay?"  
  
"Okay," Sherlock murmured. "If it helps your unease, I never had any sexual attraction to him. Completely one-sided, and he respected me enough to not push the boundaries I created for myself."  
  
John nodded, feeling foolish and oddly relieved. "Let's go, its freezing."  
  
Sherlock nodded back, releasing his grip on John's elbow in favour of wrapping his arm around the shorter man's shoulders and pulling him flush against him. They stepped out of the station, cowering together against the biting wind.  
  
"Mr. Holmes?" A young man dressed in a smart suit ran up to them. Sherlock arched a brow at him before nodding. "I've your car, sir, if you'll follow me."  
  
"Oh! The rental?" John grinned as they trailed after the man. "This should be interesting. I wonder what- Oh. _Oh._ "  
  
The man had stopped by a sleek, jet-black car that sat close and heavy to the road. The headlamps were slanted and gleaming, the windows were tinted, and the chrome finishing was sparse but very stylish. It screamed luxury.  
  
"Here you are, Mr. Holmes." The man handed over a set of keys. "Please enjoy, with compliments of Mr. Holmes the elder. Please contact him when you wish to return it and I'll meet you here." With a slight formal bow, he turned and walked off.  
  
"John, your mouth is open."  
  
John snapped his jaw shut, grinning like a fool. "This is our 'transport'? It's a bloody Jaguar!"  
  
Sherlock frowned, stepping back a pace and looking the car over. "Hm. While the lines of the design do suggest fluidity and grace, I see nothing about it that resembles a large predatory cat."  
  
John doubled over with laughter, his breath condensing white in the crisp air, and Sherlock smirked softly to himself.


	33. Confronting With Sherlock (Chap 3)

"For a man who doesn't drive, you're entirely too enamoured of this car."  
  
John grinned, pressing another button to shift his seat up to a sitting position. "I don't have to drive to appreciate how nice it is!"  
  
"Hmph _._ "  
  
"Nice to drive, is it?"  
  
"Actually…" The engine purred as it sped up, taking a curve at an alarming pace, tires hugging the road hungrily. "Quite nice."  
  
"See?" John sighed, leaning back against the soft cushions. He'd spent ten minutes alone adjusting his seat, then twenty more fiddling the radio and car controls in the centre panel. Sherlock had endured it all quietly with an amused smile.  
  
"There are times I forget you didn't have the luxuries I did when I was younger."  
  
"Yeah, think you do." John shook his head. "You never think about money."  
  
"I don't need to; I have you."  
  
John sighed happily again, leaning over the armrest to press his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. "And what did you do before me?"  
  
There was a short hesitation, then Sherlock smiled down at him. "I'd rather not think about Before John _._ The evening will be unpleasant enough without me starting it in an ill humour."  
  
John laughed again, reaching up to pull him close to trail kisses down the long neck. The soft surprised exhale reminded John of his idea earlier, and he grinned wickedly as he brushed his lips against Sherlock's ear.  
  
"I want to try something."  
  
"Yes, please," Sherlock moaned. "What?"  
  
John's hand slid down the form-fitting shirt to cradle the obvious bulge in Sherlock's trousers. "I'll grant your wish from the train."  
  
"Wha- Oh." Sherlock's eyes widened as he glanced over. "I'm driving, John."  
  
"That's the point."  
  
Sherlock's gaze darted to the road, then back to him. "I'm not- not sure if-,"  
  
"If you're already stuttering, it's a very good idea," John smirked, digging his hand under the waistband and stroking the half-hardened erection. "Show off that famous concentration of yours, hm?"  
  
"Ohh. I understand." Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly. "My only concern would be how I become tired afterwards."  
  
"Mmm. I think you'll be fine." His fingers teased the short curled hair before snaking down to cup and gently squeeze the scrotum. "To be fair, it's been evening whenever we've done something, so we're more than ready to sleep."  
  
"Y-You have a point, even if my body doesn't follow your sleep schedule."  
  
John smirked at the breathy quality to his voice. His other hand joined in, fumbling to undo the zipper, then began placing quick kisses down the silken shirt. "I love how you get the moment I touch you."  
  
"…Stupid?" Sherlock glanced down, and they both shared a guilty laugh.  
  
"A bit, yeah. I know I'm the same way." He pressed his lips to the swollen-tipped head, smiling when he heard Sherlock's sharp inhale. "Sensitive, are we?"  
  
"Ahh- Apparently."  
  
"I hope that never fades." John swirled his tongue over the glans, humming appreciatively at the sweet taste of pre-come. "How long have you been like this?"  
  
"…Since you woke me," Sherlock replied in his best _You're a moron_ tone.  
  
John laughed again, then licked his lips and pressed down, pulling as much of the damp shaft into his mouth as he could in one go.  
  
 _"John!"  
  
"Mmmmm?"_  
  
"Th-This is…" A short pause. "An amazing adrenaline rush. I s-see the appeal."  
  
John pulled his head back just enough to form words. "Keep talking and I'll keep going."  
  
"Oh god _yes_ John _please._ You are s-so clever with your tongue-,"  
  
John stopped listening after a moment, content to let the rich voice wash over him as he set about undoing Sherlock's sanity. He raked his nails along Sherlock's hip, fingertips digging into the slant when Sherlock's voice rose passionately. Another area he'd have to pay attention to later on.  
  
His tongue lovingly traced the thick veins as he bobbed his head up and down, varying the strength of his suckling and tilt of his mouth, testing what combinations made Sherlock pant and moan. When Sherlock would drag the _'n'_ of his name, he knew he'd found something wonderful.  
  
The only problem was his jaw remembered their activities of the night before, and began protesting much too early for John's liking. He wouldn't be able to keep this up much longer, so he briefly ignored the pain and hallowed his cheeks, sucking fiercely.  
  
The car wobbled for a second, tires scraping gravel, and Sherlock muttered a curse between his string of praises. Sherlock's words were slurring together, his body rigid under John's greedy hands; John hummed merrily as he pulled the shaft in to bump at the back of his throat. It convulsed once, but not as badly as last night- encouraged, John moaned around the swollen prick and swallowed _._  
  
Sherlock's hips jerked up, nearly coming off the seat as he shouted; John swallowed again reflexively as he released, sending Sherlock through another round of gasping and bucking. The taste wasn't as strong, as it had mostly been deposited far past his tongue, and John lifted his head to suck and lick at the glans, dragging his tongue along the underside in a spot that he had learned made Sherlock shiver. He spent a full minute licking him clean before tucking him away and redoing his trousers. He sat up with a smug grin, though it faded slightly when he saw Sherlock's neutral expression.  
  
"John, I- can't reciprocate at the moment-,"  
  
"I don't care."  
  
Sherlock shot him a confused glance. "But aren't you-,"  
  
"I'm fine." John leaned over, nestling his head against Sherlock's arm. "That's exactly what I wanted. All I wanted."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Sherlock still sounded puzzled. John pressed up with his feet, nibbling at the base of the pale neck. "I am one hundred percent satisfied at this moment. I just wanted to give and you take. That'll happen sometimes; get used to it."  
  
"I… will make a flag for that."  
  
"Good." John chuckled as he peered out the windshield. "Besides! Got you to lose your concentration. I am victorious."  
  
"You most certainly did not."  
  
"You went off the road once."  
  
"…It was a sharp curve."  
  
"Was not!"  
  
"Was too."  
  
"You still have a deathgrip on the wheel." John grinned up at him, biting harder at a cord of muscles in his neck.  
  
"And you're _mmmmm_ still doing that."  
  
John sighed happily. "And it's another hour to the hostel to drop off our things. Another hour of teasing you blind. Yes, I am very satisfied."  
  
Sherlock moaned softly and the tires met gravel again.


	34. Confronting With Sherlock (Chap 4)

"No- There _,_ turn just there!"  
  
"…Is that even a road?"  
  
"Yes! Slow down- it's just there, see it?"  
  
"You call that a road?" Sherlock huffed and sighed and muttered dramatically but turned the car onto the dirt path.  
  
John was entirely too happy and sedated by Sherlock's second round of whorish moaning of a few moments ago to take the bait. He clung to Sherlock's arm as the car bounced and thumped over the winding hill, pointing excitedly as they crested over the top.  
  
"There it is!"  
  
Nestled down in the pasture below was an old country home; it seemed to be comprised of three separate little houses that joined together to create an impressive window-lined front. The snowfall had been heavier out this way, and the sheets of white clinging to the façade gave it a decidedly cozy look.  
  
Sherlock pulled the car to a stop, eying the building thoughtfully- no doubt judging it's age, origins, and other such tidbits. John pushed open his door and rushed around to the other side before Sherlock had even opened his; John yanked him out of the car, grabbed his suitcase from the back and tugged him up the flagged stone steps.  
  
"Why are you in a hurry?" Sherlock asked quizzically.  
  
"The couple that run the place are- well, they're like family," John replied happily. "They're gonna love you, I just know it."  
  
"Pardon me for doubting you," Sherlock said dryly, but John just chuckled and thrust him inside, kicking off his damp shoes before padding into a large main area.  
  
"Jonny? Oi, Jonny?"  
  
There was a _whump_ and heavy footsteps before a grizzled cheery face peeked around a corner. The man that followed was tall and husky; he swooped John into a hug that pulled his feet a few centimetres off the floor.  
  
From Sherlock's pinched expression- entirely too much like his brother's for a split second- he didn't know what to make of that _._  
  
"Martha!" the man bellowed once he'd set John down, "Our other John is here!" There was a soft answering call, and John grinned up at the big man.  
  
"How've you been, Jonny? Missed you last year."  
  
"Yes, yes we did as well," Jonny beamed. "This the man what kept you from us? I know it's been a year, but we was worried all the same, since our John was. You doing well, Mr. Holmes?" A large beefy hand was extended, and John had to nudge Sherlock to reluctantly shake it.  
  
"We're doing fine- better than fine, actually," John grinned as a slender, short woman came bustling up to them. "Hullo, Martha, I see you're lovely as ever."  
  
"Such a charmer." Martha had to press to the tip of her toes to press a quick kiss to John's cheek. "Oh! And you brought your man! That is him, isn't it? Welcome to our home, Mr. Holmes."  
  
Sherlock nodded with a slight smile, unconsciously stepping closer to John.  
  
"Sherlock, this is Jonny and Martha. Been coming down here for, what, twelve years is it?" John bit his lip, thinking. "Or thirteen?"  
  
"Not often enough, young man! Now, set your cases down, Jonny will carry them up later," Martha said with a motherly gleam in her eye. "Got the fires going. You come sit while I fetch your luncheon."  
  
"Don't mind if we do," John replied pleasantly. He glanced up at Sherlock, who was wearing a carefully neutral expression, and threaded their hands together as they followed Jonny to the large roaring fireplace. Sherlock pressed him toward the long, low sofa and John sat there, amused when Sherlock settled close beside him with their fingers still interlocked.  
  
"We was so happy to get your email," Jonny said as he eased into a large armchair. "We got your room all how's you like it-,"  
  
"Actually…" John squeezed Sherlock's hand. "I'm afraid my usual room won't fit both of us. Bed's too small- Sherlock's a tangle of limbs when he sleeps."  
  
The furry eyebrows shot to the top of Jonny's forehead, followed by a wide, sly grin. "Oh! _Well._ Well then, room just next to yours should do. It's smaller, but still got that great view out back. Bigger bed. Heh, you are a tall drink of water, Mr. Holmes," Jonny added with a laugh. "Just like me when I was younger. Got myself a woman who loves to feed me and got fat, though."  
  
"I understand your wife's sentiment," Sherlock replied with a faintly evil smile down at John, who felt himself flush.  
  
"Here you are, loves." Martha swooped back into the room, handing them each a tray laden with food before sitting on John's other side. "If you're wanting anything else, let me know."  
  
"This is perfect, Martha, thank you." John nodded gratefully before digging into the meal. Sherlock watched him eat for a moment before slowly picking at his.  
  
They talked over trivialities while they ate, Sherlock silently observing and listening unless asked a direct question. John was pleased to hear his old friends gush over not just himself but Sherlock as well, who drank in the attention as a cat takes to sunshine.  
  
Eventually the soft light outside the long windows was slanting, and John set their trays aside and stood, dragging Sherlock up beside him.  
  
"Time to grab Harry and be on our way," John said sadly. "As ever, don't wait up; I'm not sure when we'll be able to escape."  
  
Martha immediately began fussing with the tilt of John's sweater, worrying over straightening his clothes. Sherlock opened his mouth to comment, but was halted by Jonny, who patted him heartily on the back.  
  
"Bless you for going with tonight, m'boy," Jonny said in a low tone. "We don't pry, but we know enough of what goes on with our John's family-,"  
  
"He's _my_ John _,_ " Sherlock snapped brusquely.  
  
Everyone froze.   
  
John bit his lip, turning to grasp at Sherlock's arm; surprised when Martha and Jonny began to chuckle.  
  
"Well of course he's your John, love," Martha said kindly, moving to tug and pull Sherlock's jacket straight, who looked too alarmed to move. "But you can't be so selfish as to not share him for a day or two at Christmas, can you?"  
  
"I can," Sherlock replied coolly.  
  
"He can," John confirmed with an awkward smile. "But I won't let him. Sherlock, this is one of two safe places that exist for me. Here, and our flat. Do you know how important that is?"  
  
Recognition lit Sherlock's gaze in that brilliant manner, and he nodded at the elder couple. "I… see. I will acquiesce to share him for a day. Or two. Since he wishes."  
  
"Trust me, you shall have him all to yourself when it counts," Martha winked. "We'll even plug our ears with wax tonight."  
  
John began laughing, shaking his head. "That's silly, you won't-,"  
  
 _Sherlock's head thrown back, muscular neck straining from shouting my name, his tongue drying from panting and gasping-_  
  
"-That might be a good idea, yeah," John finished hurriedly, avoiding their curious eyes. "But, uhm, we should get going now. Sherlock. Let's. Harry's waiting. Good evening, Martha, Jonny. See you in the morning."  
  
"Feel free to putter in the kitchen all you likes when you come in," Martha called after them. "I'll leave the kettle on the stove. Help yourselves."  
  
"Will do!" John answered, then stepped out into the swirling snow. He gasped a second later when Sherlock roughly pulled his arm, drawing him close, piercing eyes catching the faint light.  
  
"I can appreciate how precious this setting is and has been for you," Sherlock growled, his voice grating on the whistling wind, "but you're mine _._ "  
  
John didn't reply immediately, enjoying the stark predatory gaze and possessive grip first. "Don't ever doubt that, Sherlock. From the moment you spoke at Bart's, a part of me knew I was."  
  
Sherlock stared for a moment longer, searching out the truth in John's eyes before releasing his tension in a sigh. He curled his arm through John's as they began simultaneously crunching through the piling snow. "There is no such thing as love at first sight, John."  
  
"No? Well, don't shatter my illusion." John kicked at the snow, showering Sherlock's legs with the white powder. "Because I-,"  
  
"But I do know I've been waiting for you all my life," Sherlock said in a clipped, rushed tone. "Get in the car, John."  
  
John's throat closed as warmth washed through him; he tilted up on his feet and kissed Sherlock's cheek before obeying.


	35. Confronting With Sherlock (Chap 5)

John banged on the door again, shivering against Sherlock's side. "Damn woman," he muttered, thrusting his hands inside his coat. "Never ready on time. Harry's never ready on-,"  
  
A voice drifted past the door. _"Just a second~"_  
  
"Can't blame her though," he continued gloomily. "Not like we're excited to get there."  
  
"Calm," Sherlock murmured, sneaking a hand under John's jacket to curl around his waist.  
  
"I know. I know." John sucked in lungfuls of the biting air, relishing the sting in his chest. "And hey- Sherlock, I haven't thanked you properly for coming." He glanced up with a strained smile. "I can do this on my own, but it sure is nice I don't-,"  
  
The door was yanked open, swirling the snow at the step. "Okay! Sorry, let's-," The frosted brunette paused, dark eyes darting between them.  
  
"Hullo, Harry," John said listlessly. "Hurry it up, we're-,"  
  
"What's he doing- What're you doing _,_ Jonny?!" Harriet stepped out, black boots sinking into white as she clung to her brother. "You can't bring _him!_ My god, you'll be the main course for dinner!"  
  
"Already am, thanks to you," John growled, using his leverage to pull her forward. "Into the back, and quickly."  
  
"Oh but Jonny _-,_ "  
  
John ignored her protests, guiding her swiftly into the backseat before settling in the front. Sherlock was watching their interactions quietly but keenly, and John found himself waiting for when Sherlock would intervene.   
  
The intervention didn't come until they were a few kilometres down the road.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Johnny," Harriet piped up morosely from behind them. "What an awful sister I've been, you don't deserve-,"  
  
Both she and John yelped as Sherlock slammed on the brakes, the tires slicing ruts into the snow before catching and jerking the car to a stop. Before John could ask, Sherlock twisted in his seat and caught Harry's wide eyes in a stare.  
  
"John has made it abundantly clear both verbally and non-verbally that he wishes for you to stop apologizing. Frankly, I agree with his decision, as mere words cannot begin to smooth over the disaster you've tried to set in motion. You have been an awful sister- selfish and inconsiderate- and I won't let him say otherwise because he will _,_ because he wishes to protect you through some archaic notion of familial ties. Again, I will agree insofar as it won't further damage his spirit- which this already has, and the evening's just begun."  
  
Sherlock leaned forward, the silvered eyes sparking with disdain. "Don't beg for sympathy in my presence- it sickens me. You are quite correct; John has, in fact, done nothing to deserve the course of this evening, which is partly why I've come along in an attempt to avert the trouble you've stirred for him. So sit there, shut up unless you manage to find something neutral or supportive to offer. Am I understood?"  
  
Harriet's mouth flapped open several times before she nodded tearfully, clutching her handbag to her chest.  
  
Sherlock huffed angrily, turning back to the wheel; the car leapt into action, tires crunching the snow as they continued on. John's head was down, eyes hooded, lower lip worried between his teeth, but a hand snuck across the armrest and gripped Sherlock's thigh. One of Sherlock's drifted down to cover it, the gloved thumb petting the side affectionately.  
  
The rest of the drive was deathly silent, and John didn't miss Harry's usual chatter in the least. He'd grown accustomed to the quiet living with Sherlock, and even if they were both tense it still felt comfortable to be sitting there holding his hand and watching the headlamps stretch into the dark.  
  
"Is that Cousin Pippa's car?" John asked as they slowly pulled into a circular drive. "Is grandda here?"  
  
"Oh! Yes, she said he was doing better," Harriet replied softly. "Had some new medicine or something for his back, said it's working well. There's Cousin George and Sally's car, too."  
  
"Fantastic. You're going to love grandda, Sherlock," John said warmly, squeezing his hand before letting go.  
  
Sherlock arched a brow at him as he pushed his door open. "Will I?"  
  
"Sharp as a tack, wicked sense of humour." John got out and kicked the door closed behind him. "Quiet, too. Likes to listen and observe, more like you."  
  
"Sounds like good company."  
  
"Don't forget your violin." John tilted his head toward the boot.  
  
"Violin?" Harry perked, tugging on John's sleeve. "What's this?"  
  
"Sherlock's a brilliant performer," John said proudly. "Offered to play for us."  
  
Harriet glanced over with a shy smile. "That'd be lovely Mr. Holmes. Jonny and I love music, so does grandda. Oh, what a treat for you Jonny, getting to listen to that whenever you want."  
  
"Sometimes it's not a treat at four in the morning," John chuckled. He threaded his other arm through Sherlock's, briefly struck by how happy he was in this very moment; sheltered between two people who cared for him, even if they had unorthodox ways of showing it.  
  
The walkway was slippery where it had been shoveled free of snow; it had frozen over again into a sheet of ice, and all three leaned on the other to keep their footing as they made their way to the brightly lit door. Music and voices floated over them as Harriet stepped up and open it, bustling inside after shaking the snow from her coat.  
  
"Ready?" John looked up, relieved when he saw the determined expression shining down at him.  
  
"More than, John. Have you forgotten this is me you're worrying over? You needn't concern yourself so."  
  
John laughed easily at the dry tone, pulling him inside. They stepped out of their sodden shoes and padded toward the light and voices, Sherlock's hand still firmly clasped around his. The gaily lit room hushed for a split second, pale faces simultaneously turned upward before a sizable blur barreled toward them, swooping John in a bearhug. The spell ended and the voices started up again.  
  
The large man set John down, grinning past a thick ginger beard. "John! Jonny, where've you been?!"  
  
"Hither and yon. How's you and Sally? Hi Sally." John waved past the burly man to a dainty blonde woman.  
  
An older woman rushed forward, stealing a hug from John next. His smile hardened, but remained firmly on his face.  
  
"Hullo, mum."  
  
"Hullo my dear." Dark eyes flickered toward Sherlock as she stepped back. "I've missed you."  
  
John stuttered over his next words, finally settling for a quick, "I'm sorry." Then he was whisked into another embrace by an elder man, and his expression lit with a fierce joy. "Grandda!" He tilted his head, pulling the man to the side towards Sherlock. "Come here old fish; want you to meet someone."  
  
The furry grey brows rose as the man looked Sherlock over, who returned the scrutiny with an obvious stare. After a few seconds of sizing each other, they shared a quick smile and Sherlock even offered a hand politely, which he shook heartily.  
  
"Pleased to meet you, sir."  
  
"Forget that pomp and circumstance." The man snorted loudly. "'Sir' was my dad. I'm Walsh. Your name, young man?"  
  
"Oh, manners," John muttered, then paused as the room quieted again. He took a deep breath, his heart suddenly racing, his stomach flopping over. "This is Sherlock Holmes, my- ah-,"  
  
He fumbled, unsure of what to say. Everyone _knew,_ surely they did, but what to _say?_ Sherlock had scoffed at idioms, but-  
  
"-Fiancé." Sherlock finished his sentence smoothly, with a hint of pride to the rich voice.  
  
No one moved except John, whose head snapped up so quickly his neck popped. In the silence that followed, Sherlock shifted on his feet and glanced down at John with a mildly curious expression.  
  
"What?"  
  
"G-Give us a moment, please," John begged, grabbing Sherlock's arm and tugging him down the hall and out of sight.


	36. Confronting With Sherlock (Chap 6)

John slammed his head against the wall, eyes closed as he sucked in a violent breath.  
  
"John-,"  
  
" _Don't!_ " John released the breath slowly, hands fisting at his sides. Then he dared to open his eyes, both charmed and infuriated by the adorably confused expression. "Sherlock, I'm going to ask you a question. I don't want you complaining that it's a stupid question, or that it's obvious _,_ or whatever horseshit runs through your head. I want you to answer my question."  
  
"…Yes, John."  
  
So far, so good. "Sherlock, do you know what being someone's fiancé means?"  
  
"…Yes."  
  
John swallowed a sharp retort. "What's it mean, then?"  
  
Sherlock's hands fidgeted, jaw working once or twice before replying. "That both persons have agreed to be legally bound in marriage or civil partnership."  
  
"Yes. Quite. So…" John exhaled slowly again. " _Why_ on God's green Earth did you say you're my fiancé?"  
  
One heartbeat. Two. More confusion. "Because I am."  
  
John barked a laugh. "No you're not! See, Sherlock, for you to be my fiancé, you would've had to ask me to marry you in the first place. Do you see my reasoning here? Do you understand? The question and agreement have to occur _before_ you blather that in front of my entire goddamn family!" He placed his hands over his face, digging his thumbs into his eyes.  
  
"…But I did, John."  
  
"Did what, now?"  
  
"I asked you. You agreed." Sherlock stepped closer, wrenching John's hands down with a raw grip. "The social idiom is valid."  
  
"You did not!" John drew in a shuddering breath, lowering his voice. "No, Sherlock, you did not _._ When? When did you do this? When did you ask me? God, don't tell me I was asleep or out of the flat or-," He paused as Sherlock's expression shifted, the mercurial eyes angered and frustrated and so painfully helpless _._  
  
"I asked you to spend the rest of your life with me. You agreed," Sherlock whispered in a tone that made John feel about three centimetres tall- or, perhaps, just kicked a puppy.  
  
John's mind raced back through memories.   
_Sherlock, worried.  
Sherlock, kneeling.   
Sherlock, asking to spend his life with him.   
Oh god, he was kneeling_. _I agreed- I did agree but oh god really- Am I that_ stupid-  
  
"Sherlock," John croaked, turning his hands and clutching at Sherlock's wrists instead, "This- This moment, right here, this is the first time the word 'marry' or 'marriage' has passed between us. If- If you want to ask someone to do something, you need to specifically state what it is you want them to do! I didn't- I didn't realise- Oh god."  
  
They stood in the darkened hall for a moment, silent and staring, Sherlock's eyes narrowed and John unable to catch a proper breath.  
  
"John…"  The vulnerable hint in Sherlock's voice made it waver on a single syllable. "Will you-,"  
  
"No! Don't!" John grabbed at his shoulders, shaking him. "Don't you dare ask that here _._ I don't want my memory of it to be here _,_ in a house I hate surrounded mostly by people who care only on the surface-,"  
  
"But-,"  
  
"Please _,_ " John begged. "Not _here._ "  
  
John gasped as his hands were knocked away and the strangely warm hands were framing his face, forcing his gaze to meet Sherlock's. The fury and desire swirling in the liquid eyes stole his breath.  
  
"I spent the better part of an entire night devoting my considerable mental functions to find a social standing that fit you and us, since you seemed so tortured to find one. My conclusion found only one that remotely does you justice, and that is husband _-_ and thus fiancé while in the process of establishing the former. Thus I asked you and was, quite frankly, overwhelmed with relief at your affirmative reply. But if you misunderstood- If this knowledge changes your answer- You must tell me now _._ "  
  
Sherlock leaned in; John could hear a hitch in his breathing. "I cannot go through this evening without knowing your answer. I _can't,_ John. I must know now _._ "  
  
John surged upward, standing on his toes to deliver a powerful kiss, his tongue twining around Sherlock's to draw it into his mouth to suckle, their teeth clinking, huffing desperately through their smashed noses. The thin fingers dug into his cheeks, pulling and moulding their mouths together, and he returned the desperation by clawing underneath Sherlock's jacket.  
  
They broke apart viciously, their glares manically pleased.  
  
"Doesn't change a thing," John panted, reaching up to touch the pink flush across Sherlock's face. "Makes me stupidly happy, if you must know. Yes I want you, yes I will, yes to everything _._ I- I love you, you big idiot _._ "  
  
A rare brilliant smile arced through the curved mouth, a secret only John could see and appreciate. "I don't see how I'm the idiot. _I_ was perfectly clear in my intentions. You're the one who-,"  
  
"Oh don't you start," John said with smack to his arm and a threatening stare. "You great big hilarious loveable idiot _._ Come on, we-," He glanced over his shoulder, wincing at the lack of voices drifting their way. "We should probably rejoin the party, mm?"  
  
"Are you going to have conniptions if I state I'm your fiancé again?" Sherlock said with a decidedly evil gleam in his eye, and John smacked him again for good measure.  
  
"No, but my mum might!"  
  
"Seems it would do her some good."  
  
"Probably. We'll see, won't we?" John hooked an arm around Sherlock's neck, pulling him down for another quick drugging kiss. "There we are. You look properly snogged now."  
  
"And you the same."  
  
"Perfect." John squared his shoulders, weaving his fingers through Sherlock's before they stepped back into the decorated room. He returned the stares that were turned upon them with a comfortable smile. "Sorry about that. About time for dinner then, is it?"  
  
"Yes- I- I will just go check on the oven," John's mother said hastily. "John, come help me."  
  
"No."  
  
"...Excuse me?"  
  
The room went silent again. John gripped Sherlock's hand tightly.  
  
"No, I won't," John clarified slowly. "You just want to corner me to fire off questions and accusations. I'd rather skip that part of the Christmas tradition, thanks all the same."  
  
"Howard!" John's mother turned to the sandy-haired man who was presumably John's father. "Say something!"  
  
"Yeah," Walsh said, raising his head and looking down his nose at his son. "Why don't'cha pick your balls outta your wife's purse and replace 'em where they belong?"  
  
"Dad!" Howard leapt to his feet, seemingly at a loss as he didn't say anything else.  John's mother sputtered and hurriedly left; he excused himself and ran after her.  
  
"I believe Walsh has an excellent suggestion." Sherlock's calm voice shattered the stunned silence. "Your father has obviously been compliant with his wife's wishes to the point of enabling the emotional and mental abuse of her children and himself."  
  
"Oh god, Sherlock, no _,_ " John moaned, covering his face with his free hand.  
  
"I want him sitting 'side me," Walsh pronounced loudly, pointing at Sherlock. "Only sane one in the room 'sides meself."  
  
"Why, thank you, Walsh." Sherlock gave a half-bow. "But unnecessary of you to state the obvious."  
  
John peeked up through his fingers-  
  
-Harry was staring wide-eyed at him, waiting, _waiting-_  
  
-and they simultaneously burst into uncontrollable giggles.


	37. Confronting With Sherlock (Chap 7)

Not surprisingly- at least to John and Harriet- their mother had calmed and was all smiles when everyone was ushered into the dining room to begin the meal. What was surprising was that the conversation flowed easily around the large table, the group instinctively avoiding discussing anything that had occurred that evening just prior to sitting down.   
  
And aside from kicking Sherlock's protest silent as Howard insisted they say grace, John was relieved to hear Sherlock chatter about pleasantly normal subjects with his family. It gave him leave to talk with Harriet, encouraged by her new respectable job as a lawyer's secretary and scolding her for taking a second glass of wine. It was a bit awkward explaining what he and Sherlock did for a living, as there was no rhyme or reason to their daily lives; he let Sherlock ramble on about his unique profession, which apparently impressed his grandda and Cousin George to no end.  
  
The evening was going so well, in fact, that John had started to relax- and he made the obvious mistake of excusing himself from the table to go to the toilet. He had meandered halfway down the hall before he heard footsteps hurrying after him. Light and quick- A woman. Sally? Eve?  
  
"John?"  
  
Definitely Eve. John sighed, rolling his neck through a grip of tension and paused. "Yes, mum?"  
  
"Sweetheart, we need to talk." She stood there, cornering him against the wall, arms crossed in the stance that brooked no argument.   
  
_Stupid of me to leave Sherlock's line of sight. Stupid, stupid!_  
  
"There's nothing to talk about," John replied, more forceful than necessary. "Now, if you'll excuse m-,"  
  
"John."  
  
John flinched.  
  
"What is going on with you?" The hard tone softened to a honeyed one; one of obvious and hurt concern, the one that drew a childish reaction to fling himself into her arms and babble his deepest, darkest secrets.  
  
"Well, I rather thought I'd visit the loo," he said with a humourless smile. "If it's available for guests, that is?"  
  
"Don't play idiot with me, son." The words were like a whip across his face. "What's going on? Why've you gone and- and acted out like this?"  
  
"Acted out? _Acted out?!_ "  A rare righteous indignation welled in his chest, and he clung to it instead of the comfortable timidity. "You think anything I've done or said tonight somehow involved you? That I'm getting revenge for some unknown reason? This has absolutely nothing to do with you!"  
  
"What happened to you, John?" The large, dark eyes were wide with innocence. "Did- Did something happen in the Army? In London since you've been home?"  
  
"Yes _._ " He spat the word angrily. "I was wasting away from severe depression and was rescued by the greatest man that lives in our century. A year later I've gone and fallen for him and I rather fancy spending the rest of my life with him. It's simple, mum. It's just that simple."  
  
Eve took a noisy, steadying breath. "Your father and I tried to raise you and your sister right. We tried, John. We did the best we could-,"  
  
 _"This isn't about you!"_  
  
"-And you know this isn't nor-,"  
  
"What, normal?" John laughed darkly, gesturing widely. "This entire family isn't normal! So what if the person I love was born with a prick instead of a pair of tits? Who really, actually gives a damn?"  
  
"I care about your mental health and well-being!"  
  
"If you did that, you'd leave us the hell alone!"  
  
Eve swiped at her face with a shaky hand. "John, I can't stand watching you make your sister's mistakes."  
  
The anger flared into fury; John's chest heaved with a swift intake. "The only mistake Harry's ever made is to listen to you. If she'd been left to make her own choices she wouldn't've felt like she was failing you all the time and been forced into making bad ones!"  
  
"Your sister has always made her own choices!" Eve cried, pointing toward the dining room. "And look where that's got her! Poor, divorced, a drunkard, miserable! Don't do this to yourself, John. Don't go down that road!"  
  
"I'm not going to discuss this," John muttered through gritted teeth. "This conversation is over."  
  
"Fine." Eve folded her arms again, glaring down at him boldly. "But that man is not welcome in my home again, do you understand me?"  
  
John had just moved to step around her; at that command he halted, fisting his hands in his pockets. "You mean to tell me Sherlock isn't welcome in this house?"  
  
Eve nodded firmly. John squared his shoulders, chin jutting defiantly.  
  
"Then obviously I'm not either. He's my other half. He's an extension of myself. I'm not asking you to like this, or even accept it. What I do ask is that you treat him with common decency for the remainder of this evening and believe you me-," He leaned in, eyes narrowed. "-We won't darken your doorstep again."  
  
Eve's hands fluttered desperately. "John, that's not what I-,"  
  
"This is over," John said flatly. He turned and stalked away, startled when a dark shape separated from the wall and fell into step beside him. He waited until they'd rounded the corner before his stern countenance fell away, shoulders slumping tiredly. "If you heard any of that, m'sorry, Sherlock."  
  
"Don't be." Sherlock followed John into the sizable bathroom, clicking the door shut softly behind them.  
  
John leaned back against the wall, pressing the base of his palms into his eyes. He was shaking by now, and badly; sweat was dampening his sweater from the inside, seeping through the undershirt. His stomach was roiling, threatening to spill his dinner if he moved too soon. His breath caught when he felt a gentle touch at his hip.  
  
"H-How much did you hear?"  
  
"Most of it." He heard Sherlock shift on his feet, thick socks rustling on the tiles. The sink turned on, and a moment later Sherlock returned to his side and pressed a coolly wet hand to his throat. John sighed in relief.  
  
"I shouldn't've left you alone-,"  
  
"It's okay."  
  
"Don't interrupt. I shouldn't've left you alone. And while I'm more than prepared and willing to defend you against anyone, I know from personal experience that it's best for you to stand up for your own self against the offending party."  
  
John's stomach lurched again as he nodded. "I- I know."  
  
"John, look at me."  
  
John lowered his hands as he looked up, breathing through his mouth to try to ease the nausea. Sherlock was staring down at him with that odd mix of awe and wonder, the slight smile easing a knot of stress that had coiled in his lower back. "Yes?"  
  
"I'm proud of you."  
  
A myriad of emotions swept through John- pleasure, anger, frustration, joy- and he stumbled forward to kneel and grip the toilet, retching loudly. He felt Sherlock's hand on his back as he shivered through the last of it, his voice wavering with worry.  
  
"…Did I cause that?"  
  
John laughed weakly, shaking his head as he pushed himself to his feet and fell against the sink. "No. No, it was just- Too much, all at once. I- I think I'll feel better now." He splashed the cold water on his face, trying to breathe normally again. Sherlock stood by him while he washed and gathered his wits; once he was relatively dry, John turned and buried his face against the silken jacket, encircling his arms around the thin waist possessively.  
  
"Never done that before," John said, words muffled. "Said those things to her. Feels good."  
  
"Excellent."  
  
The clever fingers brushed softly through his hair, and John allowed himself another moment of peace, clinging to the lithe body and drinking in the silent comfort Sherlock offered. Finally he pulled back with a sigh, smiling when a quick kiss was dropped on his forehead.  
  
"Just got gifts to exchange and maybe sing a few carols and then we'll bundle up Harry and leave." John glanced up eagerly at him. "Still feel like playing for all of us?"  
  
"It's just for you, John." Sherlock shrugged. "Only for you, but I assumed this would make you happy."  
  
"It does." John squeezed his middle in a fierce hug again. "I'll even play with you."  
  
Sherlock frowned down at him in confusion. John grinned proudly.  
  
"I'm a bit rusty on the piano- I don't get a lot of practise. But I'll do my best."  
  
"...You play the piano?"  
  
John danced lightly on the balls of his feet. "Hah! And you thought you had me all figured out, Mr. World's Only Consulting Detective."  
  
Sherlock's nose wrinkled in a frown, and he laughed again.


	38. Confronting With Sherlock (Chap 8)

Harriet met them just outside the toilet, eyes wide and worried as she darted forward and gripped John's hand.  
  
"Are you okay? Jonny, are you alright I heard- Well I didn't hear but knew and-,"  
  
"Fine, I'm fine." John squeezed her in a quick hug.  
  
"'Fine'!" Harriet frowned, wrinkling her nose. "'Fine' with you means the exact opposite! Are you okay?"  
  
Sherlock frowned, carefully watching John shake his head.  
  
"Right, well, I'll be okay. I feel better, actually. Is dessert over?" he added hopefully. "Getting on to the gifts and music?"  
  
Harriet nodded warily. "Mum's gone upstairs but everyone's back in the front room now. Are you sure _-,_ "  
  
A cough sounded behind them, and all three turned to glare at the intruder. Howard stood half-hidden by the shadows, his mouth set in a grim line. "Excuse me, but I've something to say to you three."  
  
Sherlock stiffened immediately, and John was amused to note he stepped lightly to one side to hide him and Harriet from view. "I believe we've heard just enough of your hospitality-,"  
  
"Well you haven't heard this." Howard moved closer, into the circle of light, and John frowned to see how haggard his usually smiling face was. He took a deep breath, then sighed. "Harry, Jonny, I know how difficult Christmas is for you, how bad these visits are, and- and that's- that's partly my fault."  
  
John and Harriet froze, hands instinctively seeking the other's.  
  
"John…" Howard's hands gestured feebly as he fought for words. "All I've ever wanted is for you to find someone who loves you and will take care of you. If Mr. Holmes does that for you- If you're happy _,_ well then-," He huffed lightly. "I'm happy. You've always been a smart lad, and you still are, so all I need is to know that you're happy. And Harry, it's always been the same for you." He reached over, patting her shoulder lightly; with a small cry she flung herself at him in a tight embrace. His voice wavered, but bravely continued. "Like any parent, I just want what's best for you both. It's not my place anymore to say what that is, and I have to trust you two to figure that out. And I… I haven't taken the time to tell you that."  
  
John moved to press himself against Sherlock's side, resting his cheek against his chest. Sherlock's head tilted, face brushing the tips of John's hair.  
  
"I'm more than happy, dad. There aren't words for it."  
  
"Good. Sweetie, don't cry." Howard patted his daughter's back, looking a bit lost. "And- Mr. Holmes?"  
  
Sherlock lifted his head just enough to acknowledge his question.  
  
"I hope to see you again before next Christmas." Howard's smile was small but genuine. "When's this wedding, then? Surely before next Christmas?"  
  
"We… haven't discussed that," Sherlock said neutrally, and John could feel his own face reddening. "But you will be informed, I'm certain."  
  
"Good. All good. Dear me, sweetie, you need a tissue? Come on." He gave them an apologetic look then led Harriet back down the hallway, his low murmur barely heard over her sniffles.  
  
John sighed loudly, rubbing his nose into the warm jacket. "Dad's always been great, you know. He's a good man, just…"  
  
"Pacifistic." Sherlock nodded, absently trailing a hand down John's backside. "Doesn't want to upset the imperfect- though comfortable- balance. Has an innate desire to please, and thus won't defend himself or his loved ones."  
  
"Yes, all that, but he is a good man."  
  
"I can see that," Sherlock replied quietly. "In you, and to a lesser degree, your sister."  
  
John's breath caught in his throat as he moved back and stared up at him in wonder. "You know, Sherlock, it's like you always know what to say… by accident."  
  
Sherlock frowned, mulling over the comment as they drifted down the hall. "You may have a point. But as long as it gets said." He shrugged, and John grinned brilliantly and pulled him down for a quick kiss. When he let go, Sherlock's eyes had lost the hardened tension.  
  
"I've something for you," Sherlock whispered slyly.  
  
John's eyes widened in a slight panic. "N- Not here!"  
  
"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "It's too precious a gift to give in a room full of strangers. I just wanted you to have something positive to focus on to make the present more tolerable."  
  
John's brow knitted in confusion, then covered his mouth to hide his laughter. " _Oh-_ I thought- Nevermind."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nevermind! Get your violin!" He shoved Sherlock into the room, pleased to see a red-eyed but smiling Harry already seated close to the piano. She and his dad must've come back through the kitchen. He settled on the long black bench, fingers moulidng to the keys happily.   
  
"Whoever moved my violin, _don't._ " Sherlock reentered the room, clutching the case to his chest and sweeping an accusatory gaze over everyone.  
  
"I did. You left it too close to the door," John said mildly. "Front door's always leaked a bit; I didn't want it chilled. Pardon me for considering its well-being."  
  
Sherlock relaxed visibly, quickly unpacking the instrument and threading the bow across it experimentally. "Begin whenever you wish; I'll catch on."  
  
John rolled his eyes and was just prepared to start when he saw Sherlock pause, the all-too-familiar light of recognition dawning in the silvered eyes. He tensed when Sherlock tilted his head to look down at him past the violin with a surprised expression.  
  
"You thought I was offering sex earlier in the hall."  
  
The conversation completely died around them, and John began to truly panic.  
  
 _Ohgod no Sherlock no NO you can't've said that in front of fucking everybody-_  
  
"Really, John." Sherlock sniffed haughtily as he raised his bow again to slide it sweetly against the strings. "You're supposed to be the one of us who has manners. Where does your mind go?"  
  
"Where it properly should!" Walsh grinned, pumping a wrinkled fist in the air, and the room echoed with sudden laughter.


	39. Bonding With Sherlock (Chap 1)

"Best Christmas _ever!_ " Harriet collapsed across the leathered seat in the back of the car, then grinned sheepishly when Sherlock and John turned in tandem to glare at her. "Well- Well, except for all the horrible bits. But there were less horrible bits than usual, weren't there Jonny? And Sherlock playing! I'd marry him for his violin!"  
  
"And divorce him for the severed head in the freezer," John grinned, laughing when Harriet's face went from ecstatic to horrified. "Yes, it's true. We've a head that's been in the freezer for how many months now?"  
  
"Nearly seven."  
  
"Nearly seven months. I've taken to calling him Lester."  
  
There was a moment of silence, then a long, drawn-out _"Ewwwwwwwwww!"_ had John chuckling again. Sherlock huffed in disdain.  
  
"It's a perfectly reasonable experimentation about the effects of-,"  
  
"No, no. Don't get started on that, you'll traumatise her."  
  
Sherlock's mouth curled in a sardonic grin. "Revenge, then?"  
  
"No!" John scolded, shaking his head. "I think we've all suffered enough this evening."  
  
"Agreed there," Harriet said with a shudder. "Just so, so happy you came, Jonny, and you too, Sherlock. Must come for next Christmas- that is, if you won't be off seeing Sherlock's family?"  
  
"No no _no no,_ " Sherlock mumbled. "I have spent my entire life avoiding contact with my brother. Absolutely not. I'd rather go another round with John's family."  
  
"You've got a brother?"  
  
Sherlock grunted in agreement, then relaxed when John petted his thigh affectionately, capturing his hand and threading their fingers together. There was blissful silence for a few moments, watching the increasingly heavy snowfall drift past the windows as they bounced over the ruts carved into the snow on the road.  
  
"…Is he single?"  
  
"Who?" John tilted his head back lazily, brain too fogged to catch on immediately. Sherlock, however, was still fully present and gripped John's hand painfully.  
  
"Mycroft _,_ you mean?"  
  
"Your brother, yeah!" Harriet giggled and leaned forward, poking Sherlock's shoulder playfully.  
  
John froze, meeting Sherlock's panicked gaze before they dove into a chorus of heated _'No no no!'_ s. Harriet frowned in confusion.  
  
"What?"  
  
" _Baaaad_ idea, Harry," John muttered. "Bad, bad idea."  
  
"Tell me why?"  
  
"He's my brother _,_ " Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "That's reason enough."  
  
Harriet _harrumphed_ in a rather unladylike fashion before settling back in her seat. It was quiet the rest of the drive to her apartment, and she forced several hugs on them each before John got her door unlocked and pushed her inside.  
  
Once they were back in the car, Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes for a moment before revving the engine. John smiled and leaned against his shoulder; he knew that look, one of contemplation that was best left alone, and so he settled for petting Sherlock's thigh the entire way back to the hostel. The silence was different now that Harriet was gone; hushed and still, but a comfortable blanket in the dark black and white night.  
  
John was, as far as he could tell, in a fairly good mood as they crept into the dim hostel, but something swept through him as he saw the familiar sight of the dying fire and old furniture in the main room. He collapsed on the sofa, memories of previous years floating through his mind. He wasn't surprised to hear a rustle as Sherlock moved behind him, thin hands smoothing down his suddenly tense shoulders.  
  
"Tell me?"  
  
John's eyes slipped closed as he nodded slightly. "I've come here for years. Always get here late after- after Christmas, usually after Jonny and Martha are asleep. Alone, tired, and sometimes so upset I'd be crying. Sometimes I'd fall asleep right here and they'd find me in the morning and oh, how Martha would scold me." He shook his head, swallowing thickly as he reached up and covered Sherlock's hands with his. "Just so many bad memories."  
  
"I see." Sherlock's hands retreated, and John made a small quizzical noise. "Wait there."  
  
John turned, watching Sherlock walk off and disappear around the corner. Confessing all that, admitting to feel like he'd been punched in the gut, and all Sherlock had said was 'I see'. If it had been anyone else, John would've been offended.  
  
He laughed at the idea, pulling a blanket off the back of the sofa and curling under it. He didn't have long to wait until Sherlock returned with a shining silver tea tray. John sat up hastily, staring up at Sherlock as he flopped on the sofa beside him.  
  
"Don't tell me you made me tea?"  
  
Sherlock arched a brow as he handed a steaming cup over. "Alright… I didn't make you tea, then."  
  
"First toast, now tea? You're spoiling me," John chuckled, curling his hands around the thick ceramic gratefully. "It's really- really nice. Thank you."  
  
"John." Sherlock twisted, folding his legs under him as he shifted to face him. "I'm going to state an obvious fact, but hear me out."  
  
John's brows rose suspiciously, but he nodded.  
  
"I rarely think of others," Sherlock said carefully. "I've been told I'm cold, inconsiderate, insufferable, and a very poor choice of companion. It's become such an accepted fact that I haven't questioned it; it rarely matters in my line of work anyhow, and I know enough to manipulate witnesses or Lestrade into doing what I want."  
  
He paused, gauging John's sad, curious expression before continuing.  
  
"I've been worried over this for some time now, as well. You're-," He halted, releasing a slow breath. "I'd begun to realise just how important you are for me to function so well. I couldn't see how inefficient my life was before you, but I can now _,_ and I began to worry greatly over you leaving."  
  
"Leave?" John frowned heavily. "What do you mean?"  
  
Sherlock waved a hand impatiently. "You've had a string of lovers since we met, though these last few months we've been all over the place and so busy I believe you felt you didn't have time to find a new woman. You're obviously seeking something from these women that you do not get from me."  
  
John drew in a sharp breath. "Sherlock-,"  
  
"I didn't find the answer until, of all people, Mycroft inadvertently gave it to me. A long text awaited me one morning, and it went thus: 'For all the distance between us, literal and figurative, I hope you believe me when I tell you I'm pleased to see how you've grown and blossomed under Dr. Watson's affection.' _Affection,_ John." Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion. "He should've used the word _care,_ or _consideration,_ or something along those lines. I began to watch you more closely, to view your interactions with myself from a different mental angle, and damn him, Mycroft was correct. You were, consciously or unconsciously, giving me affection _._ "  
  
Sherlock set his tea aside, and John was startled to see his hand twitch in a light shake.  
  
"And I knew I was giving you none in return."  
  
John was already shaking his head. "No, Sherlock, it's-,"  
  
"John, shut up." Sherlock glanced over at him in exasperation. "This is plenty difficult enough to verbalise without interruptions."  
  
John placed his cup on the table so his hands were free to rest on Sherlock's knees. "Sorry. Go on."  
  
"And that was what you had been seeking from all these women. So I spent a considerable amount of time and mental effort to estimate if I could be that source for you instead."  
  
"Oh, Sherlock…"  
  
"But it was a more encompassing line of thought than even I predicted." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Not only did I evaluate myself able to return your affection, I found myself wanting to. I _wanted_ to," he repeated lower, still seeming confused. "I wanted to give you much more than that, and… and I suppose that's it."  
  
John had leaned in while listening, and their faces were mere centimetres apart now. "No it's not. Tell me the rest."  
  
"I was scared. That's when I realised I needed to give you more not just to keep you, but because I needed you."  
  
"Well, good." John closed the space between them, pressing his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck. "I'm glad you got scared. So we could both stop making this stupid mistake."  
  
"Which?"  
  
"Ignoring each other."  
  
"Oh. Yes. John…" Sherlock sighed, nestling his cheek against the short hair. "I can't change who I am, and I've come to the conclusion that you haven't attempted to change me as well, aside from storing poisons in the bottom cupboard or wearing trousers on Saturdays."  
  
"I might have to retract that last request," John grinned against the warm skin.  
  
"Excellent, because I detest _-_ But. But my point was," Sherlock stuttered, "I won't always-,"  
  
"Just promise me one thing." John pressed closer, hands sliding up the long arms to curl around his neck. "Just be you, Sherlock. And sometimes I'll want to kiss you and sometimes I'll want to hit you but I want you to be you. And actually… Here. I've something for you kind of related to all this."  
  
John smiled at Sherlock's bewilderment. "You've not gone to buy new bow strings."  
  
"Didn't need to." John dug a small object from his pocket and dropped it in Sherlock's palm. "I want you to have this."  
  
Sherlock fingered it carefully. "The key to your room. John, it's entirely too easy to pick your lock, why-,"  
  
"If you shut up, I'll tell you." John closed his hand around the key. "See, ever since I was little, I've only really had one place I could go where I felt safe. I could lock my door and hide in my bed as a child and I could ignore my parent's shouting and my sister trying to steal my clothes and everything was simple. Even as an adult I've always locked my bedroom. It's… It's…"  
  
He sighed, biting his lower lip. "It sounds silly now that I'm saying it, but what I mean is-,"  
  
"This is a physical representation of you offering me access to your innermost thoughts and emotions."  
  
"...Yes." John chuckled. "Just… I've never wanted to let anyone in. Not like you." He gasped when Sherlock shot off the sofa, dragging him to his feet and toward the stairs. "I- What-,"  
  
"Your present's in the room. Come along, John, stop tripping."  
  
"You'd think I'd be used to you pulling me about," John muttered sarcastically.


	40. Bonding With Sherlock (Chap 2)

"Stand there." Sherlock gripped John's shoulders to shove him beside the bed, then moved away.  
  
John took a half-step to the right, unable to stop grinning. "What about here?"  
  
Sherlock glanced up from rifling through his duffel, pausing for a second before he realised what John had done. "Fine."  
  
John hopped backwards, feet still obediently locked together. "Or _here?_ "  
  
"…I do not understand. You're in the same general area."  
  
John chuckled, thoroughly amused by Sherlock's confusion. He sank onto the bed, reclining back on his arms and letting his legs fall open teasingly. "What about here?"  
  
"No, you-," Sherlock cut himself off with a smile as he walked back over, hands thrust deep into his pockets. "Mmm. You should be standing, though I am very appreciative of both the view and implications."  
  
John laughed as he bounced to his feet once more, not halting until his arms were wrapped around Sherlock's neck. "Alright then. If you don't tell me what my present is, I'm going to wilt and die _,_ right here in this spot, just so you know."  
  
"I can understand your sentiment; it's been difficult keeping this to myself." Sherlock shifted down to press a quick kiss to the eager lips. "As did your gift to me, mine needs some context for you to fully understand."  
  
"Yes, go on," John breathed.  
  
"Though I never cared to know it, I've had my family lineage beaten into my knowledge since I was very young." Sherlock's nose wrinkled faintly in disgust. "Why should I care whose genes I may or may not carry? I am only interested in the result, in who I am and how to use what I have. But, apparently, my family comes from a long line of French royalty and upper crust British families, which seemed ironic to me as a child but there you have it."  
  
John snorted a laugh, nodding encouragingly as his fingers tightened in the thick black curls.  
  
"As a result of this prestigious family history, my ancestors have gathered a sizeable fortune and a varied and rather impressive collection of heirlooms. The target of my trip the other day was to claim a few of these; however, I cannot access the vault unaccompanied by another immediate family member. I tried to reach mummy, but I was informed she was-," Sherlock broke into an exasperated smile, "-scuba-diving off the coast of Costa Rica."  
  
"Scuba-diving?" John's brows rose sharply in surprise. "And how old is she?"  
  
"Sixty-six, though you wouldn't know it by looking at her."  
  
"Well, I know where you get that from then. But yes, anyway… That's why you had to see Mycroft?"  
  
"Exactly," Sherlock sneered. "Not only did I have to explain in great detail why I needed his assistance, it was nigh impossible to lug him off his fat arse and down to the bank. And he extracted that promise of a favour, which I shall probably be dreading for years to come. Prat."  
  
"It sounds a minor inconvenience," John said hopefully. "Maybe his request will be mild as well?"  
  
"But it's the very fact that he can ask," Sherlock fumed. "He'll laud it over me, never let me forget, dangle it before me like his butler waves cake before his face."  
  
John broke into laughter again, clinging to Sherlock until he heard a soft chuckle in reply. "I shall be there to keep him in check as much as I can."  
  
"Good." Sherlock sighed. "So. What I retrieved from the vault has an historic value beyond sentimental, and I assumed you would appreciate that."  
  
"I do, I do." John's hands slipped down Sherlock's chest, stopping to rub at the slant of his hips. "I'm going to _wilt._ " He chuckled again before going very, very still at Sherlock's intensely serious expression.  
  
Then he swallowed a gasp as Sherlock bent down and slowly went to his knees, grabbing John's hands in the process.  
  
"I didn't say it properly before," Sherlock said in a low, delicious rumble, "so I want there to be no miscommunication this time. I want you to spend the rest of your life with me as my husband _._ I couldn't care less what the world sees, but I know you do, so in that manner I want everyone to see you belong to me in every possible way. You've said yes twice now, which I gather is once more than you should've had to, but you do have this last chance to think it ov-,"  
  
John collapsed beside him, silencing him with a fierce, brutal kiss that left scratches down both their necks. "I don't have to think," John said breathlessly when he pulled back. "All I have to do is feel _._ Yes, Sherlock. To everything."  
  
"H-Here, then." Sherlock's voice wavered as he withdrew two golden circles from his pocket. He carefully slipped one of them on John, who stared down at it in fascination. "They're from the time of the French Revolution, I was told. Poison rings, they're so called for the hidden compartment. Fascinating, isn't it?" He fingered the gemmed top open to reveal a tiny gold-lined chamber. "I would've fetched this one for you anyway, but to my delight there was one other, and these were the only matching pair to be found. My brother informed me they're a bit… unorthodox to be used as wedding rings but-,"  
  
"No." John surged upward, hugging his shoulders tightly as he buried his face against his neck. "Perfect. Very you. Us."  
  
"Oh. Good."  Sherlock wound his arms around John and nuzzled his shoulder. "Very good."  
  
"Sherlock…"  
  
"Mmm."  
  
John pulled back enough to stare into the clouded eyes. Emotions shot through him at the sight, half-formed thoughts of possession and love and lust that twisted his stomach and made his head feel like it was floating toward the ceiling. "I want you."  
  
Sherlock's mouth broke into a rare dazzling smile. "You have me."  
  
"No." John tugged pointedly on the expensive shirt, drawing him close and pressing their noses together, eyes burning holes in the other's. "I _want_ you. Inside me."  
  
"Oh."  Sherlock's eyes widened, breath hitching. _"Oh."_


	41. Bonding With Sherlock (Chap 3)

"What do you mean 'oh'?" John teased, pulling Sherlock up and onto the bed with him. "That all you can say?"  
  
Sherlock glanced quickly to the side, then sighed softly. "I didn't pack for such a possibility, is all."  
  
"Pack?" John paused, circling Sherlock's waist with his arms and settling in his lap. "What are you talking about?"  
  
Sherlock arched an elegant brow at him. "Did you think to bring condoms?"  
  
"Oh." John's face heated immediately, and he childishly smashed it against Sherlock's shoulder. "No… No, they're at- No. Damn!"  
  
"Then allow me to lay two facts before you," Sherlock said carefully. "And after, I shall acquiesce to your experience in this matter."  
  
"Experience?" John hid a laugh against the silk shirt. "Trust me, I have no experience with this."  
  
"You misunderstand me. I won't argue that most likely I have a much more extensive knowledge base of anal sex, but in the area of unprotected sex I'm mostly at a loss."  
  
John had thought his face red before; now even the tip of his nose was burning. "And why would you think I know about that? How can you possibly know-,"  
  
"Ever since Lestrade found out about my… occasional habit, he insisted I have myself tested once or twice a year. I agreed, if only because my work takes me to less than savoury places and I potentially come in contact with-,"  
  
"Sherlock _,_ " John muttered, "what's this got to do with-,"  
  
"Shut up and listen, John," Sherlock interrupted calmly. "So, as of the end of November, I'm clean. Now, as for you-,"  
  
"How-,"  
  
"You've had yourself tested three times this year. While I can understand you sharing my concern over coming in contact with crime scenes that contain blood, feces, sp-,"  
  
" _Sherlock!_ Generalize, please."  
  
"Yes, with all that, I cannot justify your frequency with that reasoning. Considering the timing in relation to other events in your life, I've theorised that-,"  
  
"Yes," John said flatly, and Sherlock halted at his tone. "Fine. Yes, I get where you're going and yes, that's why."  
  
Sherlock hesitated, shifting slightly. "It would be useful if you were more specific as to-,"  
  
John drew away, resting back against the headboard. "There were times I didn't use a rubber and after whichever girl it was broke up with me I got myself tested."  
  
Sherlock tilted his head, brows meeting in a frown. "And why has your demeanor changed?"  
  
"Not proud of- of that," John gestured vaguely. "But there it is."  
  
Sherlock bent and crawled forward to sprawl in John's lap, arranging himself so he could still look up at him. "Understood. I suppose. But that can't be the only reason you physically retreated a moment ago."  
  
"No." John rubbed at his face tiredly. "It's- It's the reason behind why I did it in the first place."  
  
Sherlock perked eagerly. "Which is?"  
  
John took a deep breath, then cradled Sherlock's neck in his hands, stroking gently with his thumbs. "Something you might should know about me- Probably should've said before now, actually, and I'm sorry for not-,"  
  
"John," Sherlock breathed, eyes hooding at his touch, "go on."  
  
"I'm a… very physical person." John watched him carefully, and when Sherlock didn't react, he went on. "Once I was sexually active I was very active. Not stupidly- usually- just… have a healthy appetite."  
  
Sherlock waited a few heartbeats after John finished, then wrinkled his nose. "…That's it?"  
  
"Well, that's caused more problems than you'd think," John replied slowly. "One of them is sometimes making a bad judgment in the heat of the moment. And, well, newness wears off after a time, and- and it will with us too, I'm sure, and-,"  
  
"Oh, John." Sherlock released a slow breath. "Is this one of those things you're worried about?"  
  
"Yes. One of them, yeah."  
  
"Then let me ease your mind." Sherlock settled more heavily against him, leaning into his hands, muscle cords straining in his neck. "To be perfectly honest, sex became boring and tedious to watch at times. However, the reality is vastly different; performing the exact same actions with you results in a completely different experience. Even with our limited database, there should've been something repetitive already; patterns forming as we both become familiar and comfortable- and, granted, there is, but it's more mental than physical. Physically it's…"  
  
Sherlock huffed to himself, tracing a line up John's shoulder with a single finger. "It's a singular occurrence every time. Don't you see, John? There are a thousand unfound ways to make you moan my name. There's a thousand possibilities from one touch, such as this." He trailed his hand higher, outlining the base of John's jaw, eyes sparking with fascination. "I want to find them all, but I am beginning to despair it's impossible."  
  
John knew his whole body was flushing now. "I- I see, yeah, that's true. But what I meant was-,"  
  
"John, I have twenty-some-odd years of sexual experience to catch up on. If you should be worried about anything _…_ " Sherlock leaned in, their lips brushing. "It should be yourself _._ I want to find your limits. I want to tire you. I want to keep you at the brink for entire nights at a time. I want to find how many times in a day I can take you over that edge. I want to ride you so often it aches to walk, and watch you stumble because I've driven so hard into you for _weeks_. I want to mark every surface we own- and quite a few we don't- with insatiably lustful memories. John…"  
  
John bit back a moan, though his nails were digging reddened half-moons into the pale throat. Sherlock ducked his head, nipping lightly at the skin just below his ear.  
  
"Quite frankly, I don't see you having the time to worry about the compatibility of our sexual appetites."  
  
"S-Sounds perfect," John panted, pressing forward to mould their chests together. "N-Now- But what about th-the-,"  
  
"I am almost certainly positive I'm clean," Sherlock whispered, wet lips sliding around the curve of his ear and John groaned _._ "We've had two cases since you were tested and no women and thus, no sex except with myself. That murder over on Cann street was a bit messy _,_ but I'm-,"  
  
John clawed at his back, grinning when Sherlock gasped and arched his back into the touch. "Yes, alright. So let's get on with it, then."  
  
"You want to?"  
  
John would've cuffed him playfully except he noted the serious tone to the question. He pulled back enough to place a string of kisses up the sharp cheekbone.  
  
"I want you to own me."  
  
"Oh god." Sherlock's hand slipped down John's shirt as he trembled once. "And you tell me I'm the one who knows exactly what to say."  
  
"I'm learning," John grinned, then his laugh was muffled as Sherlock dove forward and claimed his mouth with an urgent pressure.  
  
Sherlock drugged him with a long, searching kiss, and John found himself mostly unclothed by the time they both pulled away to gasp for air. He wasn't sure how Sherlock had managed that, as he had been pinned back against the headboard most of the time, but he was damn grateful for it. He set about undoing the long line of buttons on Sherlock's shirt, though he paused when his fingers brushed a metal chain hidden beneath. Curiously he tugged on it, surprised into silence when a familiar set of silvered beaten tags fell into his hand.  
  
"Oh. That." Sherlock worked the rest of his shirt off, as John had gone still at the sight. "I found those the other night and took them."  
  
"…And why would you take my military ID tags?"  
  
"A good question." Sherlock stood briefly to wriggle out of his trousers, then sank against John's bare skin with a grateful sigh. John was momentarily distracted by the warm wet lips traveling up his neck in a decidedly torturous manner, but he remembered to prompt him finally.  
  
"And let's hear a good answer?"  
  
Sherlock sighed again, pressing John into the mattress and straddling his waist as he sat up, long hands trailing lovingly down his chest. "Allowing myself to finally participate in sexuality has some negative consequences. These help with that."  
  
"What? How so?" John frowned, huffing lightly- then gasped when Sherlock collapsed atop him, moulding their bodies together as the velvet voice whispered in his ear.  
  
"Because since our first sexual encounter together in the shower, there's a part of my mind that refuses to cease thinking of you," he purred. John shivered uncontrollably. "Because there's a part of me that demands I remain in physical contact with you at all times, that my mouth remains pressed to yours, that my hands slide over your skin every waking moment. That desire is so keen that it's difficult to reason at times; but these tags ease that desperation to a tolerable level. They are a representation of small part of who you are, and having the metal chafe at my skin gives me a small amount of relief."  
  
"Oh my god." John grinned as he wiggled down into the pillow, pulling Sherlock down for another sweet, slow kiss. "And here I was all worried you'd get tired of me gagging for it most nights."  
  
 _"Never."_ Sherlock kissed his way down John's neck. John's breath hitched.  
  
 _"Worry."_ Sherlock took a pebbled nipple into his mouth, teasing it until John groaned and writhed under him.  
  
 _"About that."_ Sherlock raked his teeth down the sensitive skin at the crease in John's thigh, and John cried out and bucked under him.  
  
"Yes! Yes alright Sherlock please _please_ take me-,"  
  
"A- Absolutely," Sherlock panted eagerly.


	42. Bonding With Sherlock (Chap 4)

"I _did_ bring lube," Sherlock said triumphantly a moment later as he waved a nondescript white bottle at John. "For now, that and patience are the most important factors."  
  
"Yes, whatever, fantastic _,_ Sherlock," John moaned, sliding down the headboard in a vain attempt to press his erection closer to the moving lips. "Just get on with it."  
  
"If you insist."  
  
John had a moment of clarity and was able to raise his head and scowl at Sherlock. "Just you wait. A few m-moments and you'll be stuttering over me."  
  
"You're correct," Sherlock replied quietly with a smile. "Allow me to revel in my sanity before you shatter it."  
  
John grinned proudly, his retort stolen as something cool slipped below his balls. " _Shit!_ C-Cold."  
  
"Relax," Sherlock drawled- somehow he'd shifted up to place his mouth next to John's ear again. "Remember what I told you? Push against me."  
  
"Yeah, I just-," John pushed his head back into the pillow, his legs falling open even wider. "It's just strange _._ "  
  
"Painful?" Sherlock asked sharply, then sighed when John shook his head. "Tell me if it is. I'm afraid we can't escape some discomfort, especially for you, but there are ways to ease that. Tell me, though."  
  
John moaned as the finger slipped past the initial resistance.  
  
"Promise me, John."  
  
" _Yes!_ Yes, alright _,_ just…" John wriggled, trying to pull the finger in deeper. "Faster."  
  
"That's not ideal-,"  
  
 _"I don't care!_ " John tilted his face up, glaring down at him. "Feel I've waited an entire year for this. Or more. You think you're impatient. Stretch me. Take me. _Own_ me. Now _._ "  
  
Sherlock panted softly in agreement, smiling as he leaned forward and buried his face in the crease of John's thigh, where his earlier bite marks were reddening. He added several more, dragging his teeth down the inside of John's thigh, which twitched and tensed under him. "I told you to relax," Sherlock murmured.  
  
"S-Sod off," John gasped. He bit his lower lip, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt Sherlock's curled fingers come to rest against his skin. All the way in, then. Not bad. Not bad at all, especially when he tilted his hips and that impossibly long finger found that magic button. " _Ohhh_ more yes there."  
  
"Don't become overstimulated, Doctor," Sherlock said in a decidedly gloating manner. "Unless you want to end this too early."  
  
"No, it just helps." John peeked down at him, watching in fascination as Sherlock slid his cheek along his legs, the eyes dark and smouldering as they watched his own finger slide out of him. "With- With how it feels."  
  
"Indeed." Sherlock's gaze flickered upwards, smiling when he saw John staring at him. "I'm going to add another."  
  
"Do it."  
  
Sherlock not only slid another finger to join the initial, he also ducked his head and trailed his tongue in a slow, tantalising line up John's hardening prick. By the time Sherlock's soft lips mouthed the glans gently, John had completely forgotten about fingers and stretching and being careful and was bucking his hips off the bed. And when Sherlock chuckled around the head as he slowly suckled the length into his mouth, John was remotely aware he was babbling much like Sherlock usually did.  
  
"Sher- Sherlock yes more more I _need- Oh god_ your mouth, should b-be illegal _-,_ "  
  
John floated on bliss for a few moments, relishing the attention and gasping praises as his hands fisted in the dark hair; though no amount of coaxing would force Sherlock to suck harder or faster.  
  
He was broken out of his dreamy haze by a third finger being added; he fought to not wince as the sensations suddenly doubled, flaring into recognition and tensing his body. Sherlock raised his head immediately, nosing his erection.  
  
"Still good?"  
  
"Think so," John replied steadily.  
  
"Your breathing increased and your expression changed. Tell me."  
  
"Feels a bit weird again," John admitted. "But all good. I'll tell you if I want you to stop."  
  
"Ooooh _._ " Sherlock's eyes lit with an eager fire, shifting to curl his fingers. John groaned his name and writhed closer. "A safeword, then?"  
  
"No!" John gasped, shaking his head violently. "No, not another of those damn things! I haven't recovered from you 'teaching' me the last!"  
  
Sherlock chuckled darkly, pressing lightly on the pleasurable nub. John's protests melted into a long, low moan. "Nothing that drastic, I assure you. But a safeword would be good to have; a word either of us can say that will cease all activity. What should it be?"  
  
"Don't… Don't care."  
  
Sherlock flicked his tongue lightly, teasingly over the swollen head, and John jerked toward him, driving his fingers deeper. "No, John," he rumbled with a sly grin. "You should pick the word, so you will remember it."  
  
"Wha… What about you?" John asked fuzzily. "God, Sherlock, _more!_ "  
  
Sherlock's eyes danced merrily as he swirled his lips over the glans again, pre-come smearing down one side and glistening on the pale skin. "I'll think of one; you do the same. Come on, John."  
  
"Can't _,_ with you being a fucking tease!" John's breath stuttered out of him; he wasn't close, but he wasn't exactly far behind, and they hadn't even gotten started yet. "Sh… Sherlock, I want-,"  
  
"The safeword, John," Sherlock interrupted smoothly.  
  
"I… I…" John tried to concentrate, wrapping his mind around the warm tongue and the tantalizing glide of the wet fingers. Something safe, something not related to sex at all. Something- Something he could remember-  
  
Sherlock's fingers twisted and instead of the earlier discomfort, John nearly arched off the bed as pleasure flooded his body.  
  
"Look at me."  
  
Easier to simply obey the velvety baritoneafter that wonderful shock. John clumsily stuffed the pillow back under his head and looked down. Sherlock shivered once against his legs.  
  
"Yes, keep looking at me like that. What safeword will you use?"  
  
"Ch… Cherries."  
  
"Excellent." Sherlock tilted his head- probably memorising it- then moved his fingers again and John came undone.  
  
"Oh god Sherlock I'll _beg!_ I'll do anything just- just fuck me already please _please!_ "  
  
" _Yessss._ John. Oh _Johnnnn._ " Sherlock breathed his name repeatedly as he carefully withdrew his fingers, pawing desperately at the bottle to spill more of the clear liquid over them and his straining prick.  
  
John rested his legs over Sherlock's folded ones, nudging at Sherlock's back with his toes. He laughed softly between his pleas, enjoying watching Sherlock try to capture the majority of the slippery liquid and not waste it. As it was, there was going to be an impressive wet spot already, and Sherlock's fumblings weren't helping.  
  
After a moment, though, he realised Sherlock was stalling, and he pushed himself up, braced by his arms. "Sherlock?"  
  
"Yes?" Sherlock replied quickly- a bit too much so.  
  
John shifted his weight so he could reach up to slide a hand up Sherlock's chest. "Still all good?"  
  
"Yes, fine."  
  
Another quipped answer. "Sherlock, by now you must've realised that just as I can't seem to lie to you, I can see through you like a sheet too. What's gotten you so edgy suddenly?"  
  
Sherlock's smile was thin and humourless. "For all my knowledge, John, I've never actually done this. I know everything I should and want to do, and how you should and want to react, yet I'm finding myself slightly anxious." He cleared his throat impatiently. "It'll pass. Lie back."  
  
Of course Sherlock would be nervous. Even if this seemed like the culmination of a year-long engagement, even if Sherlock knew him inside and out, even if he was just… John. Uncomplicated, open-book John.  
  
"Kiss me," John demanded, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's neck and pulling him close before he could protest. Once he sucked Sherlock's tongue into his mouth and massaged it with his, he eased himself down and dragged Sherlock atop him.  He felt the head of Sherlock's prick settle against him, and his legs automatically went flush against Sherlock's side to keep him close. His hands wandered over the smooth skin, soothing knotted muscles as he found them.  
  
It took a minute or two before John could feel the tension release in Sherlock's body. By that time, Sherlock was returning his kisses with renewed vigor and they were panting in tandem.  
  
"Sherlock…" John moaned his name, tilting his hips into Sherlock's and grinding his prick into his belly. He huffed when he felt Sherlock stiffen again. He reached up and gripped the lean face, bringing their noses together. "Listen to me. I know- and appreciate- that your magnificent brain doesn't have an off switch, but try to feel more than think _._ Don't try to predict; don't try to reason. Just let this happen and analyze it later."  
  
"That's… an admirable suggestion," Sherlock said slowly with a relieved smile.  
  
"And remember…" John tilted his head, burying his nose in the soft curls and breathing deeply. "You needn't worry about missing any details. As I've said before, this won't be the only time."  
  
And just like that, the fluttering anxiety was gone and Sherlock was all long limbs and clever tongue and urgent touches again. John wrapped his arms around the thin shoulders, his moan broken as Sherlock reached down to guide himself in. John's body rebelled immediately, but he pressed back as Sherlock had told him to, focusing instead on the low, steady voice and gentle hands pulling him toward a tantalising pleasure.  
  
It took an impossibly long time for Sherlock to slowly, carefully inch inwards, even with John's encouragement and, at times, begging for more. The unfamiliar slide of the wet prick was offset by the bliss provided by Sherlock's mouth, whether it was pressing feathery kisses, surprising nips, or whispering half-intelligible words in his ear. Finally Sherlock seemed to settle, pulling back to catch John's gaze and stare down at him.  
  
"John…"  
  
John's brows rose slightly; Sherlock's voice wavered as he continued.  
  
"You do realise you're the only person in the world, past, present or future, I could be with like this."  
  
"Yes, oh yes," John breathed, sighing happily when Sherlock leaned in for another kiss. The movement caused Sherlock to press against him and they both groaned needily. John outlined Sherlock's lower lip with his tongue before drawing it between his teeth, biting lightly as he let it slide from his mouth. As soon as he could suck in a sizeable breath, he demanded more. Sherlock complied immediately, withdrawing halfway before pressing back in, and John grinned as Sherlock's expression twisted delightfully before his own pleasure hit his system. His heels dug into Sherlock's lower back in a desperate move to repeat the motion.  
  
Sherlock caught on and thrust again, faster this time, and John bit his lip to stifle a moan. Sherlock bent low over him, whispering breathily in his ear once more.  
  
" _Johnnn-_ My John, my dear _wonderful_ John, _my_ John-,"  
  
It seemed all Sherlock could say as he began a slow rhythm, each enunciation of John's name slightly different, meaning so many different things in John's hazy reasoning- _I want you, I need you, you're everything, you're mine._  
  
It drove John insane, answering the sincere confessions with increasingly urgent pleas for _faster, harder, more._   It wasn't until he sank his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder that Sherlock bucked into him, _hard,_ with a sharp cry.  
  
"John- D-Don't-," Sherlock shivered under his touch, and John petted the dark hair worriedly.  
  
"Sorry- I won't do that again." John arched a brow up at him. "I thought-,"  
  
"Too much," Sherlock replied sullenly. "Too much at once, it can't last, so close."  
  
Only Sherlock could manage to sound so childish during sex, and John had to smother a laugh at the thought.  
  
"It's okay." He fisted his hand in the thick hair and tugged insistently. "God, Sherlock, it's- it's your _first time._ Of course it'll all be too much. Normal."  
  
"'Suppose." Sherlock bit lightly at the corner of his indulgent smile. " _Want_ to keep going."  
  
"Won't- _mmmm-_ Won't be last time," John mumbled against the sculpted lips. "Now move like you're dying to, I can feel it."  
  
"But…" Sherlock released his grip on John's arm to gesture vaguely.  
  
" _Hmph._ Really, Sherlock," John snapped, pleased when Sherlock's gaze darted back to lock on his. "I'm the one who's been avoiding a sexual identity crisis. I'm the one who's been thicker than dirt about this whole mess and put you off and hurt you with my ignorance. If anyone should be wishy-washy at this moment it should be me _,_ who has your gorgeous prick stuffed up my arse. Not you!"  
  
John muffled another round of laughter at Sherlock's mildly shocked expression. He reached up, gripping the top of the headboard to brace himself, knocking away Sherlock's searching hand with his other. He could worry about his own painful erection in a moment.  
  
"Now, Sherlock, I want you to fuck me into this bed like you've been promising with those incredibly indecent looks you've been giving me for _days._ I'm aching for you; take what's already yours."  
  
He could see the exact moment the last reserves broke in the stormy eyes; seconds later he gasped as Sherlock assaulted all his senses at once.  Thrusting brutally enough to slam the sides of the headboard into the wall; the heavy, burning eyes swinging feverishly above him; the wet slide of Sherlock's tongue against his for brief seconds of intense tasting.  
  
And through the glorious- _violent-_ rutting, the beloved silky voice was panting his name between the furiously stolen kisses.  
  
John drank in the offered lust like a starved man, begging for yet even more as he clawed at Sherlock's back, gripping him with locked ankles, savouring the building tension in Sherlock's body and pulling him recklessly toward a powerful release.  
  
He knew that exact moment, too; Sherlock captured his mouth again and thrust his tongue against John's in a wild mimicry of their actions, growling as he shoved in once more, shivering and shuddering in John's grip. John held him tightly until he could just feel him start to calm, then whimpered when Sherlock shrugged his hands away.  
  
Then Sherlock carefully withdrew, drawing echoed needy grunts from them both. John opened his mouth to say he hadn't minded, that he'd wished Sherlock hadn't moved so soon- and clamped his jaw shut when Sherlock slid down his body and looked up at him with one of those horrifyingly sexy _Shut up_ glares.  
  
"Coat my tongue," Sherlock rasped, and John nodded dumbly. "Paint my throat, give me, _give it to me._ "  
  
Sherlock then swallowed most of his prick in one go and John twisted and shouted his name. He could barely breathe under the renewed attention; his hands dug into the glossy curls, back arching to meet the sweet, wet mouth. And _oh,_ Sherlock's magical fingers were sliding back inside him to search and press and John came undone with an exultant cry. The pleasure felt limitless, though he fell back to Earth momentarily and found himself damp with sweat and completely, utterly boneless. He retained enough energy to help drag Sherlock up and beside him, curling an arm possessively down his back as he pressed him close.  
  
They remained quiet for the next half hour, listening to their breathing even out and occasionally touching each other with silent questions and answers.  
  
Sherlock, of course, eventually broke the silence.  
  
"You were right."  
  
"Rare words from you." John smiled to himself, amused when Sherlock attempted to scowl and only managed to look adorable.  
  
"I couldn't've thought my way through that," Sherlock added quietly. "There's a considerable chance our liaisons will degenerate into that quite often."  
  
"Excellent."  
  
"And I expect to be treated equally thus when it's my turn."  
  
John chuckled tiredly, shaking his head. "I won't have your massive intellect distracting me. I'm afraid you should be concerned for your health when it's your turn. You won't be walking straight for a week."  
  
"Excellent," Sherlock parroted, nestling closer and fitting his cheek to the curve of John's shoulder.  
  
"Sherlock…"  
  
"I'm done talking, John." Sherlock lifted his head just enough to yawn pointedly. "I'm exhausted."  
  
"Fine. But I love you."  
  
Sherlock froze, and John's happy haze dimmed slightly. The silence stretched until it was uncomfortable and John frowned.  
  
"What, Sherlock?" He huffed as Sherlock resettled against him, hiding his face. " _What?_ "  
  
"I want to return the sentiment," Sherlock said, words deadly soft and muffled, "but I'm- At the moment we're both experiencing heightened levels of neurohormones and that could be affecting my judgment."  
  
"Oh." John snorted, tucking the blanket in around them at the edges before collapsing against his pillow. "You don't have to say it, Sherlock. I already know you do. But I want to say it, I enjoy saying it, and quite frankly I think you need to hear it."  
  
There was no reply, and John had nearly drifted to sleep before he heard the barely there whisper, "Good night, John."


	43. Epilogue

\----

 

Three months later

 

\----

 

"Mrs. Hudson! _Mrs. Hudson!_ "  
  
John tore out of the small dressing room, fingers hopelessly tangled in the tie that was slowly but surely choking him. His hands were too fat, too clumsy, he couldn't _think-_  
  
"Oh dearie, come here."  
  
John halted and turned, slumping in relief as she came up and unknotted his hands, then began fussing with the tie.  
  
"You've made a right proper mess of this, haven't you? Don't you know how to tie one, sweetheart?"  
  
"I usually do," John muttered, shifting his weight anxiously from one foot to the other. "It's just today I seem to have forgotten everything _._ "  
  
"That's normal, dearie." Mrs. Hudson nodded sagely, peeking up at him with a knowing smile. "You know, I had to chase Sherlock 'round earlier. He was tripping on his laces and hadn't even noticed he'd left his shoes undone."  
  
"Glad I'm not the only one," John chuckled. "He doing okay? Is he-,"  
  
"He's just fine, don't you worry." She pulled the tie straight with a flourish, then patted down the lapels of the tan jacket. "Oh, look at you. All fixed up and handsome!"  
  
"Are you sure?" John tugged nervously at the jacket. "I feel a bit out of place in this. Fancy clothes suit Sherlock so much better. Are you certain I shouldn't've worn a plain black and white one?"  
  
"Trust me, dearie," Mrs. Hudson said indulgently, threading her arm through his and leading them down the hall. "You would've been all washed out in something else. Leave the dark colours to Sherlock, they fit him just so."  
  
John slowed as they passed a tall window, catching a glimpse of his own reflection. The suit had been specifically tailored for him- Sherlock had insisted on it, and John hadn't dared ask what it cost- and Mrs. Hudson had gone with him to pick the style and colour. The jacket and slacks were a deep golden brown, which reminded John of how his hair had been before it'd greyed a bit. The undershirt was a flecked white, crisp and sharp and smart and entirely too nice for one John Watson.  
  
"Nearly time," Mrs. Hudson prompted quietly, and John started and stammered an apology as they hurried on. As they rounded the corner, music drifted toward them. John cocked his head, a slow smile spreading across his face.  
  
"Is that- Is Sherlock playing?"  
  
"Said he had to keep his hands occupied or he'd go mad waiting," Mrs. Hudson replied merrily. "Such a precious idea, too, isn't it? Now you wait here," she said, petting down his shoulders one last time before opening the large wooden door. "Give me a moment to get up there then you come in. And…"  
  
John smiled as she leaned in, hugging his middle tightly.  
  
"I love you boys, I really do."  
  
"I- I know, we love you too, Mrs. Hudson."  
  
She gave him a nod and a teary wink, then slipped past the imposing door. The singing violin faltered for one second before continuing; the notes were long and slow- anxious and melancholy. John pressed a hand to the knob, his heart beating wildly, his legs weak and a thin shiver running down his spine.  
  
He couldn't think about how surprisingly large the crowd was on the other side; how Lestrade and Harry were waiting for him on one side, with Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson on the other. How this moment was a defining one- though it seemed almost anticlimactic for he and Sherlock. After all, as Sherlock had said many times before, they were as good as married in his eyes.  
  
But after today, he would give John the cherished title Sherlock had so desperately wanted, that John wanted to hear every day the rest of his life.  
  
_Husband._  
  
John squared his shoulders, standing straight and proud as he pulled the door open. A sea of eyes turned toward him, the room hushing into a strange quiet, and he nearly panicked.  
  
Then stormy eyes met his from across the room, and the violin's voice slowed and melted into pure notes of relief.  
  
The next moment was a blur as he had to remind himself to not break into a desperate run to Sherlock; at least it gave him plenty of time to look him over. Mrs. Hudson was quite right; Sherlock was always resplendent in darker colours, and the deep navy suit was as gorgeous as it was indecent, what with the way it hugged the flat planes of Sherlock's hips and buttocks, leaving nothing to the imagination along the tightly buttoned shirt.  
  
Even the tailored sleeves were positively obscene, showing off the delicate curve of the pale wrists as Sherlock drew his bow back and forth. And then, of course, the slightly pointed and very polished shoes were striking and elegant. And the glossy brushed hair curled just so across his forehead and John was finally close enough to smell him, the soft scent that was only Sherlock and he breathed in deeply as he halted in front of him.  
  
The music dwindled to a single sweet note before Sherlock passed the violin off to his brother somewhat violently in his eagerness. John started as he saw Mycroft nod slightly at him in acknowledgement- he'd already forgotten there were others there, and he promptly did again as he looked up and drowned in the swirled emotions in Sherlock's eyes.  
  
The registrar- a kindly gentleman named Mr. Wellington that apparently knew and worked with Mycroft- began to speak, and the peaceful bubble John had been floating in shattered as he watched Sherlock draw a sharp breath.  
  
"We gather here today to unite Sherlock Holmes and John-,"  
  
"I believe every person in this room is singularly aware of why they're here," Sherlock muttered loudly.  
  
"Sherlock!" John frowned, straightening to his full height and glaring.  
  
"Well, they are _,_ " Sherlock returned peevishly. "Can't he get on with it?"  
  
"It's _tradition,_ " John hissed.  
  
"Inaccurate." Sherlock locked his hands behind his back, rolling forward on the balls of his feet as he grinned mischievously. "Civil partnerships- and marriages, for that matter- have no official ceremony script."  
  
"I don't care, just _shut up!_ " John shot a worried look at Mr. Wellington, who was watching their bickering with an indulgent smile. Thankfully he seemed to have been warned beforehand. "If you hadn't interrupted we'd be at the important bits right now!"  
  
"Then there shouldn't be any trouble skipping ahead to-,"  
  
" _I_ want it!" John huffed noisily. "If anything else, I want to listen to it, so your point is moot. Now kindly shut your trap!"  
  
"Boring," Sherlock intoned quietly.  
  
John stepped forward, closing the small distance between them and gripping the long arm tightly. "Did you - Did you just call our wedding _boring?_ Tell me I didn't hear you correctly."  
  
Sherlock weighed his answer for two seconds before replying. "This part is, yes."  
  
John released him and his hands fisted at his sides, frustrated and angry and blindingly happy. "Are you always going to be like this?" he muttered darkly. "Please carry on, Mr. Wellington. Please _._ "  
  
The registrar nodded placidly, continuing his interrupted speech as if Sherlock hadn't spoken. Sherlock leaned down, one cheek brushing the flat short hair affectionately.  
  
"Yes, I _am_ always going to be like this," he said softly.  
  
"I'm going prematurely grey because of you," John hissed back.  
  
"I like it. I hope you're completely silver one day. It'd look very distinguished."  
  
"I- What?" John smoothed a hand nervously over his hair. "You think so?"  
  
Sherlock smiled down at him languidly. "Of course. Incidentally, this is your last chance to walk away, John. The world at large couldn't blame you for -,"  
  
_"No!"_  
  
The room went deathly quiet, the odd silence pressing in, and John looked up to see Mr. Wellington blinking down at him in confusion.  
  
" _John!_ " Greg leaned in, elbowing him repeatedly, hiding a grin. "You stupid git, you just _refused_ to take Sherlock as your husband."  
  
"No! I m-mean _yes!_ " John stuttered. "I do, I will, yes. Absolutely. To whatever you… um. Just said."  
  
There was a giggle behind him, and he irritably waved a hand in Harry's general direction. However, a second later he caught Sherlock's amused smile and couldn't help himself- they both burst into laughter at the same time. Mrs. Hudson joined in next with her delightfully throaty chuckle. To his credit, Mr. Wellington continued speaking, albeit with a smile on his face.  
  
Mycroft did not look amused in the least.  
  
Their laughter faded when it came time to exchange rings. They had independently elected to compose their own vows, and the room once again fell quiet as Sherlock hastily slid the special ring on John's finger.  
  
"You've said you don't need my words," Sherlock began slowly. "And I trust you to be so honest as to tell me what you do and don't need. But you also spend a great deal of your free time insisting I verbalise minute details as well, and I've found one detail I believe you need to hear."  
  
John's brows rose as Sherlock bent forward suddenly, placing his lips next to his ear. When he whispered, the warm breath flowing over his skin made John shiver.  
  
_"This isn't for anyone but you."_  
  
Sherlock hesitated, and John nodded eagerly, otherwise standing perfectly still at attention as he waited.  
  
_"My dear John, I want you to know that after much consideration and deduction, I know for an immovable, unquestionable fact that I love you."_  
  
John couldn't breathe, not even after Sherlock moved away, not even after Mr. Wellington cleared his throat pointedly. John was immobilised, all thoughts pounding with that single sentence, staring up in wonder at Sherlock.  
  
" _John._ " Greg was hissing and elbowing him again and it hurt this time. "Stop gawping like a fish!"  
  
John licked his lips, rubbing his face quickly to gather himself. He was more than aware that Lestrade was quite accurate in his description; Sherlock, damn the man, was standing there looking like the cat what stole the cream, all poised and long lines and ineffably smug. That should've sparked at least a minor rise out of John- and often had before- but he'd seen Sherlock come apart under his hands and mouth.  
  
And he smiled those memories and promises up at Sherlock with his own smirk, and Sherlock's eyes melted into understanding.  
  
"After- After that…" John didn't fumble with the ring as Sherlock had, sliding it on quickly in a long-memorised motion. "I can't remember what I'd planned to say."  
  
There was a smattering of muffled laughter that John ignored.  
  
"But I will say…" John smoothed his thumb along the sensitive skin inside the pale wrist with just enough pressure to make Sherlock shift on his feet. "That I've never been anyone's other half before."  
  
Sherlock's expression changed only subtly, but to John his pleasure was clearly written there for him.  
  
The rest of the ceremony was lost on them both after, though neither needed prompting to seal the union with a traditional kiss. Sherlock's hands finally relinquished his to curl around the small of his back, pressing John into a kiss that was a bit more passionate than warranted their surroundings. Mycroft's polite cough separated them readily enough so they could begin accepting congratulations and drift toward the long, low tables set out for the modest meal.  
  
Somewhere in the sea of familiar and non-familiar faces he lost Sherlock, though he kept a glass of wine in hand for when he did find him again. John was determined Sherlock wouldn't escape this day without at least one glass. Preferably in front of everyone so he could thoroughly embarrass John more- nothing could top that ceremony, anyway- and Lestrade could maybe get another hilarious video for everyone to laugh over.  
  
He scanned the crowd again, not locating Sherlock but he did spy his brother, towering over the woman he was talking to and handing a champagne glass and-  
  
John gasped softly, narrowing his eyes as he looked closer. Yes, Mycroft was smiling _,_ and not the _I've-just-swallowed-arsenic_ polite grimace but a true, real gesture and the woman-  
  
John choked on his next breath. _God,_ Mycroft was talking to Harry, and Harry was smiling and giggling and _oh god_ he knew what that look meant, Sherlock was not going to be pleased-  
  
"You're shorter than I imagined."  
  
John started, blinking over- then up- at the woman who'd spoken. She looked vaguely familiar, but John was certain he'd never talked to her before in his life.  
  
"Sorry- was a bit lost for a moment there. Did you say-,"  
  
"Shorter, yes." The woman tilted her head, the sharp warm eyes tracing John's outline quickly. "More rugged, too, though I suppose that's the point. You and Sherly complement each other in every way."  
  
"Oh- Thank you. You've no idea." He chuckled to himself, halting when she arched a delicately manicured brow at him. "I meant- I meant living together, you know, and personalities … and- and-,"  
  
"Are you antagonising my husband already?"  Sherlock's hands snuck under his jacket from behind, curling around his waist and John leaned into him automatically.  
  
The woman didn't bat an eye. "Of course. Your brother is currently… occupied, and your father, by way of choosing to remain in that boorish family graveyard, isn't here to."  
  
Sherlock leaned forward, resting his chin on John's shoulder so each rumbled word reverberated through John's chest. "I don't think it's polite to mention the deceased at weddings, is it, mummy?"  
  
"Pah. Your father would be irate if I didn't invoke his memory at least once. I'm Cynthia, darling," she added, nodding at John. "So excited to finally meet you."  
  
" _Oh!_ Yes! Sherlock, take this. Drink it." He handed the glass of wine off to Sherlock, smiling widely at his immediate glare before delicately shaking Cynthia's hand. "The pleasure's mine."  
  
"Oh, he has manners." Cynthia's brows rose. "Any chance of that rubbing off on Sherly?"  
  
"Absolutely not," John grinned, resting back into Sherlock's embrace again. "But then, I think if Sherlock was polite to society in general, well, it'd probably be grounds for divorce."  
  
"Oh, I like him," Cynthia said warmly. "Keep him, won't you?"  
  
"That's my intention. Are you certain I have to drink this, John?"  
  
"My first request as your husband," John laughed, tilting his head back to kiss the tip of the sharp nose. "You can't refuse that, can you?"  
  
"I see no difference between it being the first, or second, or hundredth request?" Sherlock asked, though he obediently sipped from the glass. "It's good. Very good."  
  
"Good! Ah, Cynthia, would you-," John brought his head down, pausing when the woman in question wasn't there. "Where'd she go?"  
  
"She does that," Sherlock said morosely. "Like a cat. I would swear she teleports. But she likes you, and that's probably all she wanted to know."  
  
"Oh- Well, maybe we'll see her later then." John glanced around quizzically. "It's not that large a room, where did she-,"  
  
"Best not dwell on it. Mycroft and I would lose her in the garden for half the day as children. Speaking of…" Sherlock nestled his head more tightly in the crook of John's neck. "Do you see that main table there? With the white cloth?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"If you don't agree to leaving within the half hour…" Sherlock's voice lowered to a delicious purr. "I'm going to drag you under it and take you here."  
  
"Oh come now." John gestured at the sizable party around them. "We can't- We can't leave yet."  
  
"Well, _hus~band._ " Sherlock drawled the title and John shivered in his arms. "Those are your two options."  
  
John licked his lips nervously. "Only two?"  
  
"I'm making time to bugger you _before_ we leave so we'll both sleep on the flight."  
  
"It's only an hour and a half to Paris," John said dryly. "I didn't plan on sleeping on the flight-,"  
  
"You're going to need your rest-,"  
  
_"Ahem."_  
  
Sherlock turned them both to see Lestrade standing there with an apologetic smile.  
  
"Sorry, lads, I've got to- ah- pop off now… I want to stay, but-,"  
  
John felt Sherlock tense eagerly behind him. "What is it?"  
  
" _Nothing._ Just- You know, office stuff." Lestrade risked a glance at them both. "Anderson's nagging me, see, and I need to-,"  
  
"What's been called in?" Sherlock blurted, and John's breath quickened with anticipation- Sherlock's enthusiasm was infectious.  
  
Lestrade, however, was having none of it. He began drifting off toward the door, and Sherlock and John instinctively followed. "Right, well, it's nothing I can't handle, okay?" He gestured sternly at them. "It's nothing either of you should be thinking about today of all days!"  
  
"On the contrary," Sherlock said smoothly as he gripped John's hand and surreptitiously tucked them into his trouser pocket. "This is exactly what John and I will be doing for the foreseeable future-,"  
  
John glared.  
  
" _-Mostly_ what John and I will be doing for-,"  
  
"Look." Lestrade held up a hand; they'd made it out to his car. "You should take a holiday for yourselves. From what I can tell, it looks to be, ah, routine double homicide-,"  
  
" _Two!_ Excellent. Get in, John." Sherlock plucked the door open and John let himself be pushed in. Lestrade stuttered, gestured, and finally muttered a curse and stomped around to the driver's side and got in. John was laughing, trying to muffle it against Sherlock's shoulder, who had scooted across the backseat and had pinned John into the corner.  
  
"Right, fine," Lestrade growled, turning and pointed angrily at them. "I _cannot_ believe I'm saying this- cannot believe I'm worried about this with two grown men- but if you get my car… _dirty…_ I will do horrible, horrible things to you while you sleep. I know where you live!"  
  
John fell into another fit of giggles, melding with Sherlock's deep, satisfied laughter as the car pulled into the drive and sped off.  
  
_~Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all the readers years ago who encouraged me, gave me feedback and delightful comments, and with their enthusiasm renewed my love of writing.
> 
> And my thanks to all the readers I have now, who continue to inspire me. You are why I post my writings and art.


End file.
